Biscuits: A Love Story
by Pinky Brown
Summary: Winner of "Best Depiction of Ron" at the 2009-10 Ron/Hermione Awards on Livejournal. The story of Ron and Hermione's complicated romance, with added biscuits. Not remotely fluffy despite the title, and rated M for later chapters.
1. Chapter 1: First Impressions

**Biscuits: A Love Story**

_The story of Ron and Hermione's complicated relationship, with added biscuits._

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**Chapter One: First Impressions**

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"Hey, there's a table over there by the window!"

"Quick, grab it!"

They raced each other across the common room and threw themselves down at the table beside hers with much raucous laughter and noisy scraping of chairs.

Hermione gritted her teeth in annoyance. Couldn't they see she was working? Really, the common room was _supposed_ to be for study. She was about to inform them of this when they began pulling out their books and quills, and she realised they were there to do their homework after all. Well… as long as they were quiet. Not that _that _was likely, based on her experience of them in the three weeks since she'd come to Hogwarts.

-----

She knew these two boys well. They were in the same year as her, and in all of her lessons, too, worse luck. The one with the messy black hair and glasses was Harry Potter, and he was _famous_. At first she had been slightly in awe of him - he was in a _book! _- but then he had proved himself to be just as childish and silly as all the others. And he seemed to know almost nothing about the wizarding world, which she thought most odd. I mean, if _you_ were in a book, if you actually had a whole _chapter_ dedicated to you, wouldn't you have read it? Hermione considered this rather revealing of his character. Obviously, he was just one of those people who had no interest in the world around him. And consequently, she had no interest in _him_.

-----

The other boy, the one with the bright red hair who seemed to be physically incapable of tucking his shirt in, was Ron Weasley (rather a silly name, she thought). She had seen him on the train, attempting to do a spell. It hadn't worked, of course, but then that was hardly surprising. He seemed to think that messing about and making his friend laugh was more important than learning things. Perhaps if he actually bothered to listen to the teachers occasionally, he might be able to do a basic spell by now.

"How do you spell '_Expelliarmus'?"_

Hermione's head sprang up, eager to provide the answer, but the red-haired boy had got there first.

"Dunno. I think it's e…x…p…e…l…e…a..."

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. He was counting out the letters on his fingers! _And_ he was wrong! She waited for someone to challenge him on it but the other boy merely said, gratefully, "Thanks," and actually started to write it down. The _wrong answer! _

Hermione could stand it no longer. Leaning across the aisle between their desks, she told them, "Actually, I _think_ you'll find that's _wrong_. The _correct _spelling -"

"Were we talking to you?" the red-headed boy interrupted, rudely.

She flushed. "I was only -"

"Showing off as usual?" he finished for her.

The other boy laughed, then stopped abruptly when Hermione transferred her glare to him, and pretended to be interested in his hands instead.

"Fine," she said, in a high, quivering voice, "If you _want_ to get it wrong…"

She deliberately turned away from them and opened her book with a flourish. The first boy muttered something under his breath that she didn't quite hear, and they both sniggered.

Hermione put her head down and tried to concentrate on her own essay. It was her first Charms essay, and she was keen that it reflect to the teacher her level of knowledge of the subject. First impressions were _very_ important. She dipped her quill neatly into her pot of ink and began to write.

"This is no good," sighed Harry, loudly, a few minutes later. "I can't make head nor tail of any of this. Do you fancy a game of chess instead?"

"Yeah, alright," said Ron, eagerly, obviously grateful for the distraction from homework. "I'll go and get the set."

Hermione rolled her eyes. Typical. Five minutes of effort and they were already giving up. They hadn't even _tried_.

-----

The red-headed boy was back a few minutes later, carrying a large flat box under his arm. Hermione watched out of the corner of her eye as he set up the board and put out the chess pieces. She'd never seen a wizard chess match before, and was torn between curiosity to learn about something new, and being caught expressing an interest in the two annoying boys, which she knew would only delight them and give them more ammunition to make fun of her.

Ron withdrew from his pocket a handful of dusty-looking custard creams, which he offered to Harry.

"Want one?" he asked, "I nicked them off the Slytherin table at dinner."

Hermione tutted silently to herself.

Harry made a face. "Have they been in your pocket for the last two hours?"

"Er... yeah," admitted Ron, with an apologetic grin.

Harry pretended to consider. "Then... no."

Ron shrugged. "Suit yourself. More for me, then."

She watched, with a mixture of fascination and disdain, as he carefully stacked the biscuits into a small, wobbly tower on the table in front of him. One toppled off the desk and landed on the floor, but he simply leaned down to pick it up, examined it, gave it a cursory wipe on his trousers, and popped it in his mouth. Hermione stared at him, her nose wrinkled in disgust.

He looked up then, caught her staring at him with a horrified look on her face, and broke into a wide grin. Then he deliberately opened his mouth as wide as possible to show her the wet biscuity mess inside.

Hermione looked away quickly, revolted. "That's really immature, actually."

_"That's really immature, actually," _he mimicked.

She opened her mouth to tell him that he'd just proved her point, then decided against it. Why bother? She'd just be wasting her time trying to explain it to him. He probably didn't know what the word immature even _meant._

"You're not funny, you know," she said, with as much scorn as she could manage.

The boy gave an airy shrug. "I'm _pretty_ funny…" he said, and flashed her another of his annoying grins, before deliberately turning his back on her once more.

-----

She stared at the back of his head for a few seconds with something like hatred. Fine. _Fine! _She had only been trying to _help_. What did she care if their essays were wrong? Let them fail. It was no more than they deserved. They were just like the boys at her old school who used to pull her hair and call her names. The ones who always sat at the back of the classroom and messed about, who never did their homework on time and got away with everything. It wasn't _fair_.

-----

She had hoped that maybe witches and wizards – pureblood wizards, especially, like the red-haired boy – would be different. Before she had arrived at Hogwarts, she had even fretted that she would be way behind them in terms of knowledge, that she might actually be _bottom of the class _for the first time in her life. But if those she had encountered so far (mainly Neville and Ron) were any indication, she needn't have worried. It seemed that eleven year old wizards were just as stupid and immature and _silly_ as normal boys were.

-----

If the red-haired boy wasn't so annoying, she would have liked to ask him some questions about what it was like to grow up in the wizarding world. Previous attempts to discuss the subject, however, had not gone well. Neville had gone pale and stuttered that he needed to use the toilet before rushing off. She had asked one girl, "What's it like being a witch?" She hadn't meant to offend, but the girl had gone quite red and retorted, "I don't know; what's it like being a Muggle?" For once in her life Hermione had been stumped for an answer. "Well… it's… it's just _normal!" _she had exclaimed, and the girl had given her a withering look and snapped back, "And I'm _not_, I suppose?" before stalking off. That hadn't been what she'd meant at _all._ She was only trying to make friends. Everything just seemed to come out wrong somehow.

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It was just like at her last school. She hadn't had many friends there either. Well, no, that wasn't quite true; she hadn't had _any_ friends there. It was probably the main reason her parents had agreed to send her so far away, hoping that maybe her apartness from other children was because she was a witch, and at Hogwarts she would finally be amongst people who understood and accepted her. But no, everything was just the same. The boys called her stuck-up and a show-off, and the girls didn't want anything to do with her at all.

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There were only two other Gryffindor girls in her year, and they'd gravitated towards one another immediately. They were at that age where girls tended to have one best friend in the whole world, who they told all their secrets to, and Hermione was not the kind of girl whose demeanour encouraged secret-telling. Already she was finding that when she came up to the dorm at night, Lavender and Parvati would stop talking the moment she entered the room. Not that she cared, of course. Silly, giggly girls, both of them. All they were interested in doing was painting each other's nails and plaiting each other's hair. What on earth was she going to talk to them about? "So, Lavender, what's your favourite Jane Austen novel; _Persuasion _or _Mansfield Park_?" _Ha!_ No, she wasn't bothered at all if they didn't want to be friends with her. She didn't want to be friends with _them_, either. Really, it was their loss.

-----

By the end of her first week at Hogwarts, it seemed that the other Gryffindor first years had already made up their minds about her. Everyone else seemed to have paired off already. Lavender and Parvati. Harry and Ron. Dean and Seamus. That left her and Neville, who made a very odd couple indeed. She'd been paired with him a few times in lessons, purely because they were the only people in class without partners. She liked him well enough, but he wasn't the brightest of boys, and it was very frustrating being paired with him in a subject like Potions, where he seemed to have not the slightest clue what he was doing. Still, at least he wasn't rude to her like the others, although that was probably just because he was absolutely terrified of her. He seemed to be pretty much terrified of everything. And mutual loneliness was a poor basis for a friendship. She'd learned that the hard way.

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She had even considered asking if she could be re-Sorted into Ravenclaw, where she was quite sure they'd be much more her kind of people. She had gone as far as to look up whether anyone had ever been re-Sorted after their initial House allocation in _Hogwarts: A History_, but the book contained no such information. She couldn't quite believe that a book had failed her. Perhaps once you were Sorted, that was it, forever. You were a Gryffindor and there was nothing you could do about it. There was nothing in the book, because no-one had ever changed Houses after the start of term. No-one had ever wanted to. It was just _her _who didn't fit.

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Perhaps if things were no better by Christmas, she'd ask to speak to Professor McGonagall about it. She felt tears stinging the back of her eyes, and wiped them surreptitiously on her sleeve. It had to get better, it just _had _to. If it turned out to be just like her old school... well, she didn't think she could stand it. And she couldn't even go home to her parents each day now she was a boarder. She was stuck here, with idiots like Ron Weasley who _ate biscuits off the floor_, for the next seven years.

-----

A sudden peal of loud laughter from the next table shook her out of her reverie, and she shot them her iciest glare, but they were too busy laughing to notice. Right! That was _it! _That was the absolute _limit!_

"Do you _mind_?" she snapped, "_Some_ of us are trying to _concentrate!_"

The boys exchanged grins.

"You could always go and sit somewhere else," suggested Harry.

"I was here first!" she protested, outraged, "And I'm actually _studying_, you're just playing a stupid game!"

"It's not stupid and it's not a _game_," retorted the other boy, looking equally outraged and going quite red in the face, "It's wizard chess! Sweet Merlin, don't you know _anything?"_

Hermione's mouth fell open in disbelief. "At least I know how to _spell_," she retorted, "_And_ I don't steal biscuits!"

The boy stared at her for a few seconds, then he just laughed.

"Well, if that's the best you can do..." he said, with a shrug. And he turned back to the board, popped another custard cream in his mouth and said, through a mouthful of biscuit, "Your go, I think, Harry..."

Hermione stared at him, her cheeks crimson with fury, then slammed her book closed and jumped to her feet.

"Oh, are you leaving?" he asked, mildly, without looking up. "Hope it wasn't something I said."

Harry sniggered.

Hermione picked up her bag and belongings, and stormed off to her room, the sound of their laughter ringing in her ears. Oh, he was _impossible! _Oh, he was _infuriating! _How she was going to get through the next seven years without giving in to the urge to give him a good hard smack around that stupid red head of his, was completely beyond her!

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_Author's Note:_

_Thanks for reading, and please let me know what you think of the story so far. Do you like it? Do you hate it? Is there not nearly enough swearing? Should I give up on the whole damn thing? Let me know! _

_I hope to have at least one more chapter up before Christmas, and then I'll be away from my laptop for the best part of a week. (Just imagine, there are still places in the world that don't have broadband!) Still, I always write better with a pen and paper, so hopefully I'll be able to knock out a couple more chapters and upload them when I return. Unless my brain is addled from too many mince pies, of course..._

_PB x_

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	2. Chapter 2: Troll

_Author's Note:_

_Woo-hoo! 43 reviews! You guys RULE! Thank you so much, it really made my week, and encouraged me to keep working on the next chapter, despite the many distractions (real work, Christmas-related nonsense, worrying about whether Amazon will manage to deliver my dad's present on time, you know the kind of thing)._

_Anyway, here, nice and speedily as promised, is Chapter Two. Hope you enjoy, and please review!_

_PB x

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**Chapter Two: Troll**

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"I can't believe it…" Ron was saying for the umpteenth time. "We could have been expelled. _Expelled!"_

Hermione wished he would just shut up about it. As it was she kept breaking out in a cold sweat at the thought. She had nearly been expelled! _And_ she had nearly died!

"My mum would have gone _ballistic_ if I'd been expelled! None of my brothers have ever been expelled. Fred and George were suspended for a week once, but they were never actually _expelled_…"

She wished he would stop saying the word "expelled".

"At least you've got somewhere to go back to," said Harry, miserably, "If _I'd_ been expelled, I'd have had to go back and live with my Aunt and Uncle, and they _hate_ me."

Hermione glanced up at him, surprised. She was quite sure he must be exaggerating. No-one's Aunt and Uncle actually _hated_ them.

"Yeah, but at least you can go to a Muggle school," said Ron, "I'd have to stay at home with my mum 'til I'm seventeen." He shuddered at the thought. "Fred and George would take the mickey out of me _forever_."

"At least you'd still be able to use magic. I wouldn't be allowed to do any spells at all. Uncle Vernon would probably snap my wand."

Ron giggled. "Yeah, the last thing you need is a snapped wand!"

They both laughed, and Hermione felt as though she had missed something.

"_And_ I wouldn't be allowed to play Quidditch!" Harry suddenly exclaimed, as though this would be the worst thing of all.

Ron gaped at him in horror. Clearly, he also thought that this was the worst punishment imaginable. "Well, that's just… just..."

He tailed off, and they both sank into a depressed silence.

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Ron chanced a sideways look at Hermione, sitting in an armchair nearby and apparently absorbed in her book. His stomach gave a feeble lurch. He still felt a horrible kind of gnawing guilt over what had happened yesterday. Yes, she was annoying, and yes, she was a know-it-all, and having her correct his pronunciation as though he was _three_ was particularly galling, but he hadn't meant Hermione to overhear him complaining about her to Harry, and he certainly hadn't meant to make her _cry_.

---

This was all his fault! If he hadn't said - _what he said _- she wouldn't have been off on her own crying in the loos, and a sitting target for an escaped troll. And despite all that - his stomach gave another lurch - she had stuck up for them to McGonagall! She had pretended it was all her fault, that she had gone looking for the troll, and that they had realised she was missing and come to help. Well, that last bit was true, anyway. Even it _was_ mainly out of guilt.

---

It was weird, though. She seemed like the sort of person who would shop them to a teacher in a heartbeat, just to win herself a couple of House points. And she'd made it quite clear over the last couple of months how much she disliked them. _Him_, especially. The very first thing she'd said to him when they'd met on the train was to tell him that the spell he was attempting to show Harry was "not very good". And then she'd announced that all the spells _she'd_ tried had worked perfectly, and finished off by telling him he had dirt on his nose! Was it any wonder they'd got off on the wrong foot after that?

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She didn't _have_ to say what she did to McGonagall, though. She could have let them be expelled, or at least, get about a million years of detentions, but she didn't. He still didn't quite understand why. He felt he ought to say something, but what? "Sorry I almost got you killed by a rampaging troll" just didn't seem to cut it, somehow. Maybe she didn't _want_ him to say anything. She'd probably be quite happy if he never spoke to her again, in fact.

---

He glanced across at her again. All of that mad curly hair of hers was hanging in front of her face, so he couldn't see her expression. Maybe he should just leave her alone, like she obviously wanted. No, actually, that was rubbish. Who wanted to be alone? Who wanted to have no friends? She obviously didn't, or she wouldn't have been off crying in the toilets half of yesterday, would she? Guilt coursed through him once more. Yeah, Ron, he told himself, that's _definitely_ the way to make friends. Tell them that nobody likes them and then get them nearly half killed by a troll. Nice one. You _idiot._

_---_

He had been worried, before he met Harry on the train, that he might have difficulties making friends here. He came from a large family, so there was never much need to socialise with other children. Not to mention that he'd been taught at home, like most children from wizarding families, and that was bound to put him at a disadvantage from all the Muggle-born and Half Blood kids who'd been mixing with other children since the age of four.

---

But then he'd met Harry, who seemed to have the same worries about not fitting in (although, of course, they'd never actually discussed it), and made his first proper friend outside of the family. He didn't count that boy from the village who he'd been friends with for about two weeks one summer, since that had ended badly when the boy had pushed him into a puddle and thrown one of his shoes over a hedge. That had been a learning experience. Basically, what he'd learned was; "Don't tell strangers that you're a wizard because you'll end up walking home with one shoe on."

---

It was funny, really. Dad was always telling them that they ought to make friends with Muggles, but most of the ones he'd encountered so far had hardly been what you might call friendly. The Muggles Harry had grown up with had made him sleep in a cupboard. Hermione Granger had looked down on him from day one. Although... Dean seemed really nice, even if he _did_ like that stupid football. And Harry had said that his aunt and uncle and cousin weren't typical of _all_ Muggles. And Hermione...

---

He sighed, and shot another sideways glance at her. Hermione had told a downright lie to McGonagall, purely to save their skins. Funny how something like this could change your whole opinion of someone. This time last week if you'd given him the choice of spending an evening in the company of Hermione Granger or a stinking twelve-foot mountain troll, he'd have taken the troll, no contest.

He started to laugh all of a sudden, and the others both looked up.

"What's so funny?" Harry asked, amused.

"I was just… ha ha… remembering the look on that troll's face when you… ha ha… shoved your wand up his nose!"

Harry grinned. "It _was _pretty funny…"

"Yeah, he didn't see _that_ one coming!"

Ron did an impression of the troll reacting in confusion to having a foreign object thrust up his nostril, which reduced Harry nearly to hysterics. For several minutes neither of them could speak, they were both laughing so much.

"Who keeps a _troll _at a school, anyway?"

"I _know!_ Someone _mental, _obviously!"

"I mean, what next? A fire-breathing dragon in the Great Hall?"

"What, McGonagall, you mean?" asked Ron, innocently, and Harry shouted with laughter.

Ron laughed at Harry laughing, then frowned all of a sudden. "I hope she doesn't write to my mum, she'll kill me." He started laughing again. "I'd rather face the troll!"

"Oh, come on!" protested Harry, sceptically, "She can't be _that _bad."

"You haven't met her," Ron retorted.

"I have. I met her at King's Cross, remember?"

"Oh, yeah. I forgot. You haven't been on the end of one of her tongue-lashings, though. Seriously, you think that telling-off from McGonagall was bad…"

"I quite enjoyed it, actually."

Ron gaped at him. "Being told off? You're weird!"

"No! Fighting the troll!"

Ron chuckled. "It _was_ pretty cool, wasn't it?"

Hermione stared at them. They'd all just been nearly _killed! _How could they possibly think that was 'cool'? She shook her head. She would never understand boys.

"Who shall we fight next?" Harry joked.

"Malfoy?" Ron suggested, with a distinct air of hopefulness.

"You're on." He made a face. "I tell you one thing, though; I'm not sticking my wand up his nose."

"Oh, I dunno, you wouldn't have to try very hard. His nose is permanently stuck up in the air anyway."

A jolt went through her. He'd said something very similar about her just last week. Was that really what everyone thought of her?

"Yeah, but I'd never get my wand clean. I'd have to go at it with a scouring pad."

"A what?" asked Ron, curiously.

"It's a sort of wiry green cloth Muggles use to clean saucepans," Harry explained.

"Oh." Ron made a face. "That's really boring."

"You asked!"

"I know, and now I wish I hadn't."

Ron rubbed the back of his head distractedly and chanced another look over at Hermione, who was still engrossed in her book. He should definitely say something. This was getting ridiculous.

Harry sighed. "I suppose _everything's_ going to seem really boring now after fighting a troll. It'll just be lessons and homework and more lessons from now 'til Christmas."

Hermione gaped at him. What was wrong with that? That was what school was _supposed_ to be about! Not nearly getting yourself killed by a troll!

Ron shook his head. "What about your first Quidditch match next week? That's pretty exciting!"

"Yeah," said Harry, cheering up slightly. "Yeah, that's gonna be great. As long as I don't fall off my broom or anything."

"You'll be fine," said Ron, confidently. "Youngest Seeker this century, remember?"

"Mm," said Harry, uncertainly. "But I've never actually played a proper match before, have I? I hadn't even _heard_ of Quidditch 'til two months ago. What if I'm rubbish?"

"You won't be," said Ron, but he sounded rather less confident.

There was a short silence.

"The worst thing that'll probably happen is if Fred and George play some sort of practical joke on you."

"What?" said Harry, sounding slightly panic-stricken, "What do you mean? What sort of practical joke?"

"They probably won't, though," said Ron, hastily. Why did he _always_ say the wrong thing? "I mean, they know you'll be nervous enough already. I can have a word with them, if you like."

Harry shook his head. "Don't bother," he muttered, but he didn't look happy.

"I know what we need," Ron suddenly said, and he got up without another word and disappeared upstairs to the boys' dorms. Harry and Hermione continued to sit in silence, with nothing to say to each other. Finally, after a long couple of minutes, Ron reappeared with a small, orange-coloured box, which he held out to Harry.

"Here you go."

"What is it?" Harry asked, suspiciously.

"Biscuits! Mum sent them to me for Hallowe'en."

"Have they been in your pocket?"

"No, they bloody haven't!" _(Hermione cringed at his language) _"Do you want one or not? They're really good. She made them herself."

"Yeah, alright," said Harry, giving in and taking one, "Go on, then. Thanks."

Ron took a deep breath._ Now or never, Weasley. _

"Hermione?" he asked, in a studiedly casual voice.

A jolt went through her and she looked up, despite herself. "Wh-what?"

He had come over to where she was sitting and was holding the box out to her, too. "Do you want a biscuit?"

"A biscuit?" she repeated, blankly.

"Yeah."

"Oh. Er…"

He frowned at her hesitation and his hand wavered. "I didn't _steal_ them, if that's what you're worried about. My mum made them."

She flushed. "Oh, no! I didn't think - that's not what I -"

Now she had _offended_ him! Why did she _always_ say the wrong thing?

She took one of the biscuits awkwardly. They were large and round and flat and each had a design of a smiley-faced pumpkin in bright orange icing on the top.

"Thank you," she said, gratefully.

She could feel him still watching her and bent her head to concentrate on eating her biscuit, feeling her whole face practically on fire with embarrassment.

Ron still hadn't returned to his seat. She could see his battered trainers at the bottom of her field of vision.

He cleared his throat pointedly. "Um… look, I just wanted to say… I'm sorry about… about before… what I said… I didn't mean it."

"That's quite alright," she squeaked, still unable to look him in the eye. "It doesn't matter."

And anyway, it was _true_, wasn't it? What he had said to her. She _didn't_ have any friends. He had only voiced aloud what everyone else already thought. What she herself already _knew_.

"Right," he said, sounding thoroughly unconvinced. "Well, er…"

She chanced lifting her gaze and saw that he too was crimson with embarrassment. The effect of his red face with his red hair, and coupled with the red t-shirt he was wearing too, made him resemble nothing so much as a large, embarrassed tomato. She stifled a giggle at the comical image this conjured up.

"Honestly, its fine," she assured him, feeling a little more confident now. "After all, you did just save my life."

She was still rather unsure of what to make of this turn of events. She had thought that everyone hated her. She had been _certain _Ron Weasley hated her, after what he had said to her earlier. But they had come looking for her, on purpose. They had come to help her when she was in trouble. They had put themselves in danger, nearly got themselves killed, nearly got themselves _expelled_, for her. No-one had ever done anything like that for her before. She really didn't know what to make of it. Did this mean they were friends now? It wasn't exactly something one could ask.

"Yeah," he said, uncertainly, "Not really, though. I mean, if I hadn't… you wouldn't… Well, I'm sorry, anyway. I don't _really _think you're a - a nightmare."

The last word was mumbled and almost below the range of human hearing, but she knew what it was.

She gave what she hoped was an airy shrug. "Honestly, it's fine. People have said worse, believe me."

He looked somewhat sick at this, and she felt rather sorry for him. She wished she hadn't said it.

"Oh," he said, weakly, and slunk back to his chair, sitting very low in the seat as though hoping the ground might swallow him up.

There was rather a long silence.

"Thanks for what you said to McGonagall," piped up Harry, finally, "If it wasn't for you, we'd both be on the train home by now. So, um…thanks. We owe you."

"Yeah, thanks," mumbled Ron, who was now merely pink in the face rather than crimson.

"Well, if it wasn't for you... _both_ of you… I'd be d -"

She stopped abruptly, a lump in her throat. It really didn't bear thinking about. She wiped her eyes quickly, hoping they wouldn't notice.

When she looked up again Harry gave her a weak smile, which she returned, gratefully.

Ron was still looking anywhere but at her.

That hadn't gone as well as he'd hoped. Maybe he should have just have left it. "_People have said worse"!_ People like Malfoy, she probably meant, and now he was included in that group, too. He was the worst person in the world. Well, if words weren't going to do it, there was only one other thing he could do...

"Biscuit?" he offered, brightly, holding the box out to her again.

Hermione shook her head. "My mum says I shouldn't eat biscuits because they're bad for me."

She almost gasped. Why had she _said_ that? Now they'd hate her again and wouldn't want to be friends with her anymore.

Ron considered this for a moment. "Yeah, that's probably true." He glanced down at the half-nibbled biscuit in his hand. "But it's probably bad for you to try to tackle an escaped troll as well, so I reckon one little biscuit wouldn't hurt."

"Well..." That _did_ seem reasonable. And she could always brush her teeth afterwards. "Okay, then."

She reached out to take one, but then pulled her hand back. "You've only got one left."

"I know. But we've both had two each, so that one's yours."

She hesitated. "But… don't _you_ want it? They're your biscuits, after all."

He shrugged. "I'm not really that hungry, to be honest."

He flushed slightly when he said this, and she suspected it was a lie for her benefit.

"Take it," he insisted, and then when she still hesitated, "Look, I tell you what, you have this one, and then next time, _you _can bring the biscuits. How does that sound?"

"_Next_ time?" she asked, and her heart beat a little faster.

"Yeah, Ron," Harry interjected, dryly, "I don't think Hermione's planning on fighting any more trolls any time soon. Nor am I, for that matter."

"Shut up," Ron grinned, "I just mean, you know, next time we have biscuits, that's all." He turned back to Hermione. "My favourite's anything with chocolate on it, but I'm really not fussy."

She stared at him, slightly taken aback. Was he serious?

"He really isn't," Harry agreed. "I've never seen anyone with an appetite like Ron's, and I grew up with Dudley."

She didn't know who Dudley was, but relaxed a little anyway.

"Fine," she said, feeling suddenly rather daring, "Next time you two nearly get us all killed by a troll, I'll bring in some Hob Nobs."

Harry laughed - _laughed! _At a joke _she_ had made! - but Ron merely looked confused.

"What in the name of Merlin is a Hob Nob?" he asked.

"It's a Muggle biscuit," explained Harry, helpfully.

"With chocolate on," Hermione added.

"Awesome," said Ron.

Hermione smiled.

---

* * *

_Endnote__: _

_Can I take this opportunity to say a big collective thank you to each and every one of you for your wonderful reviews for Chapter One? I know I always promise to reply individually to each review, but as the turnaround's so quick for this story, and as I'm rushing around trying to do a million other things this week, I just haven't got the time, unfortunately. I promise that once things have settled down again after Christmas, I will make sure I reply to all of your reviews personally_

_PB x_

_p.s: I had to re-read certain sections of Philosopher's Stone in order to write this chapter, and subsequently realised that Ron didn't start teaching Harry wizard chess until the Christmas holidays. I don't think anyone noticed though, so shhh!_


	3. Chapter 3: Chess

_Author's Note__:_

_I did try and get this finished before Christmas, I swear, but it just wasn't to be. Anyway, hope you all had a good time, that you gorged yourselves silly on mince pies and Baileys and that you are now reasonably sober, recovered, and ready for Chapter Three. _

_PB x_

_p.s: Apologies if you are one of the 10 or so people who read this on New Year's Eve afternoon when I first posted it. I basically re-read it, and immediately changed my mind about the ending. It's quite different now, so please forgive me for making you read it twice!

* * *

_

**Chapter Three: Chess**

---

Hermione gave an exasperated sigh. "How much longer is this going to take? I'd quite like to finish this game before dinner, if at all possible."

"I'm _thinking!" _

She just about managed to refrain from making the obvious joke. "I would have thought you'd have been put off chess for life after being nearly decapitated by the Queen last year."

Ron laughed. "Nah, I'm used to women beating me up."

"I don't do any such thing!" she exclaimed, punching him in the arm.

"I meant my sister," he told her, rubbing his sore arm. "And _ow, _by the way."

Hermione was rather surprised at this revelation. Ron's younger sister had just started at Hogwarts this year and apart from the flaming red hair and freckles, seemed to be not at all like her brother in terms of personality. She was very shy and in the few weeks since the start of term, Hermione had only heard her speak once.

"Really? She seems rather a quiet sort of person to me."

_"Ha!" _said Ron, "Well, she isn't. E4." He prodded one of his Knights to get it to move. "Come _on! _What are you waiting for?"

"She's settling in alright, though?"

Ron was still distracted by the board in front of him. "Mm. Seems to be, yeah. I don't want to cramp her style by pestering her all the time, though. She's got to make her own friends. _I _had to. Oh, _come_ on, you useless _git_, E4!"

"Ron!" Hermione scolded.

He glanced up, seemed to realise what he had said, and looked rather sheepish. "Sorry. But he is. _E4!" _

The Knight finally made his move, raising his sword to violently dispatch two of Hermione's pawns on the way.

"Well, he obviously isn't _that _useless," she remarked, waspishly.

Ron chuckled. "Your move."

"Oh, yes. F3. I'm going to beat you one of these days, you know."

"Fine. I look forward to it."

"You don't believe me, do you?"

"Not if you keep making moves like that one, no." And he quickly dispatched another three of her pawns.

She stared at the board, now almost entirely devoid of black pieces, in disbelief. "But - what?"

Ron burst out laughing at her confused expression. "No offence or anything, but I think you need a bit more practice."

She laughed too. "A _lot_ more practice, I think you mean."

"Anyway, I wouldn't worry about it too much; you completely thrashed me at that _Scabble_ thing."

"_Scrabble," _she corrected, automatically.

"That's what I said, _Scabble_."

"Well, it _was_ the first time you'd played it," she said, fairly. "You can't expect to be really good at something straight away. Maybe one day _you'll _beat _me_."

"Ha," said Ron. "Only if I'm ever going to play it again, which I'm _not_."

"Why not?" she asked, offended.

He gave her a hard stare. "_Errr_… because games are supposed to be _fun_. This was like taking an exam."

"You just don't like losing."

Ron gave a disbelieving snort.

She frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, _come_ on! You _hate_ losing! You got really upset the other day when you only got eighty-four per cent on your Charms essay."

"I did not!" she protested, although the truth was that she _had _been rather upset by it, especially as it meant she had come second to another student by a margin of two per cent. It was just not something she wanted to admit. Ron had been rather grumpy during her whole tirade that she had thought the essay worth at least ninety per cent, and finally said rather testily that he had got forty eight per cent, and would she please shut up about it.

"Whose turn is it again?" she asked, in a rather obvious attempt to change the subject.

"Yours."

For several minutes she surveyed the board, desperately searching for a move she could make that wouldn't immediately result in Ron dispatching her two remaining pawns.

"In your own time…" said Ron, dryly.

"Oh, shut up. You took about three_ days _to make your move."

"Not that you're exaggerating or anything…"

"You know, it constantly amazes me that someone as impatient as you can like chess so much. All that waiting around."

"It's not waiting around," retorted Ron, "It's _thinking_."

This time she didn't even attempt to refrain from making the obvious joke. "Maybe you're just out of practice."

He glared at her. "Maybe you just can't play chess."

"Fine. I admit it. I can't play chess. Happy now?"

"Delighted. Are you gonna make a move or not? 'Cos I think I've started to grow a beard here…"

She pulled a face. "I don't think a beard would suit you at_ all_."

He chuckled. "It'd suit _me_ better than it'd suit _you_."

"Well, I should hope so!"

They both laughed.

"Now _Harry _would suit a beard..." she observed.

He shot her a disbelieving look. "Yeah, when he's about _forty_, maybe."

"Well, _obviously_, Ron, that's what I _meant! _I didn't mean _now! _He'd be the only twelve year old in school with a beard!"

"Oh, I dunno," said Ron, innocently, "What about Millicent Bulstrode?"

"That's not funny, Ron," she scolded, although she was trying to hide her smile. "You shouldn't say things like that about people."

"You don't even _like _Millicent Bulstrode!"

"That's not the point. It's sexist."

Ron gave a derisory laugh. "No, it isn't. And anyway, you can talk, who was it the other day saying that Pansy Parkinson looked like she ran into a wall at high speed?"

"I didn't say that!" she protested, shocked. "And even if I did, I only said it because she said -" She stopped abruptly and felt her face heat up. "Something about my hair, anyway." She frowned. "But you're quite right, I shouldn't have said it. I shouldn't have let myself sink to her level."

Ron shook his head. "Seriously, Hermione, I don't _care_ what you say about her. Parkinson's a cow. And she _does_ look like she ran into a wall at high speed." He grinned. "Or maybe someone dropped her on her face when she was a baby..."

She giggled. "Ron, that's _awful!" _

"You can use it if you want. Next time she has a go at you about your hair. What did she say, anyway?" He tried to look sympathetic but failed, mainly because he was obviously trying not to laugh at the same time. "Did she say it looked like a bird's nest?"

Hermione glared at him, and Ron decided it might be a good idea to change the subject quickly. Glancing at his watch, he said, brightly, "Harry should be back from Quidditch practice soon!"

Hermione automatically glanced up at the rain-lashed window of the common room. "He's going to be wet through; it hasn't stopped raining all afternoon. All week, actually." She sighed. "I hope the sun comes out for my birthday tomorrow."

Ron chuckled to himself, and she threw him a frosty glare. _"What?"_

He shook his head. "That's the most obvious hint I've ever heard in my life. You can just _ask_ me if I've got you a present, you know."

"Alright. Have you got me a present?"

"I'm not telling."

_"Ron!"_

He shook his head again. "It would spoil the surprise."

"A-ha, so you _have_ got me a present!" she exclaimed, triumphantly.

"Wait 'til tomorrow and you'll find out, won't you?"

"Is it a book?" she asked, slyly.

He frowned. "No, it's… it's not really a proper present. It's just a little thing. I didn't have much m-" He corrected himself, quickly. "_Time. _Anyway, don't get your hopes up. That's all I'm saying."

"I'm sure whatever it is, I'll love it."

"Yeah," he said, sounding distinctly unconvinced. "Do you know what your parents have got you?"

"Not sure," she told him, recognising a change of subject when she heard one, "I mean, I asked them for the new _Illustrated Magical Dictionary_, but I'm not sure if they'll be able to get hold of a copy. What are you laughing at?"

Ron shook his head. "Nothing. I should have guessed, that's all. Isn't there anything else you want apart from books? Haven't you got enough already?"

Hermione looked scandalized. "You can _never_ have enough books!" she protested. "When I'm older, I'm going to have my own _library!"_

"Remind me not to come 'round your house, then."

"Why, what are you going to have at _your _house?" she retorted, scathingly. "A full-sized _Quidditch pitch_, I suppose?"

"Oh, yeah," he said, sarcastically. "When I win the Daily Prophet Grand Prize, that's obviously the first thing I'll be doing. Actually, no, the _first_ thing I'd do is buy the Cannons and sack their useless manager."

"Well, you wouldn't need to win the Daily Prophet Grand Prize for _that_," she teased, "You could probably buy the Cannons for about three Sickles and a Chocolate Frog, couldn't you?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Funny."

Something suddenly occurred to her. "I bought _you_ a book for your birthday," she exclaimed, accusingly, "You said you liked it!"

"It was a Cannons annual, Hermione, it doesn't count."

"It was still a book!"

"It had _pictures_ in it!" he laughed. "And you _know_ I liked it. I _told_ you I liked it. Sod it, now I wish I really _had _got you a book."

She raised her eyebrows at the swearing, but kept her mouth shut. "Well, if it's not a _book_…?" she persisted.

"Oh, no. You're not getting around me that easily. Whose go is it, anyway?"

"I've forgotten. Is it something edible?"

The instant crimson flush that crept up his face said it all. "No!" he retorted, defensively.

"It is!" she crowed, "Oh, of _course! _I should have guessed!"

Ron was looking rather annoyed. "It isn't food!"

"No, I see what you mean," she said, teasingly, "If it was food, you'd have eaten it already, wouldn't you?"

The corners of his mouth twitched slightly. "Who's to say I haven't?"

She gasped. "You _ate_ my present?"

"Yeah. No! _Well_…"

"Ronald Weasley!" she exclaimed, putting her hands on her hips and reminding him rather strongly of his mother when she was annoyed about something, "Did you _eat_ my birthday present?"

He put his hands up in defence, laughing. "Yeah, but I got you another one! A _better_ one! You wouldn't have liked it, anyway."

"What was it?"

"What's the point in telling you? You won't be getting it now."

"Then you might as well tell me, mightn't you?"

She glared at him, and he gave in, with a huge sigh. "Alright! Fine! It was a really posh packet of biscuits!"

"What sort of biscuits?"

"I don't know! Posh ones! _Expensive_ ones."

"Well, you must know. You ate them!"

"I got you something _better!"_

"Maybe I would have preferred the biscuits!"

"You don't even _eat_ biscuits! You're always complaining that they're bad for your teeth!"

"Well, shouldn't you have thought of that before you went and _bought me some for my birthday?"_

He opened his mouth to retort, but then started laughing instead, burying his head in his hands and pretending to sob into them. "You'd have thought so, wouldn't you?"

She laughed too. "Were they chocolate?"

He shook his head. "No, they had blueberries in them."

She gasped. "I _love_ blueberries!"

"I _know," _he said, dryly. _"_That's why I _bought _them."

"And ate them," she added, mischievously.

"Yeah, alright. I said I was sorry. They just looked really nice." He broke into a grin. "What am I saying? They _were_ really nice."

She slapped his arm. "So, what did you get me instead? I hope it wasn't more food."

"No, I've learned my lesson. I can't be trusted with biscuits."

"So…?"

He buried his head in his hands and moaned into them. "Do you want it _now?_ Is that it?"

They looked at each other.

"I mean, if it's going to stop you asking me what it is every five minutes…"

"No, of course not," she said, primly. "That would spoil the surprise."

Ron threw his arms up in the air in a gesture of disbelief. "You women are all _mental_," he grumbled, half-jokingly, then hurriedly pushed his chair back as far as he could to escape the inevitable Hermione arm-slap.

"I'm not going to hit you," she sighed. "Although I _should_."

He edged himself a little closer to the desk, but still well out of slapping range.

"It's going to be weird being thirteen," she mused. "I don't feel like a teenager."

"Well, you're not yet, are you? Not 'til tomorrow, anyway."

"No, I know, I'm just saying… I feel as though I should feel _different_ somehow. Do you know what I mean?"

_"No!" _laughed Ron, "But then I never do, so..."

"Oh, shut up," she smiled.

Ron gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine, I'll give you a clue. It's not a book..."

_"You told me that already!" _

"… but I did buy it in a bookshop. And that's all you're getting out of me."

Hermione considered for a few moments. She did love a puzzle. "Is it a notebook?"

"Well, that would sort of come under the heading of a _book,_" he said, dryly.

"Not necessarily," she retorted, "A _book_ has _writing_ in it. A _notebook_ is _blank_."

"It's still got the word 'book' in it. Which makes it a _book_."

"A diary, then?"

He shook his head. "That's a book as well."

"It hasn't got the word 'book' in it, though," she said, testily, "So according to your _own_ _rules_, it isn't a book."

"Still a book," said Ron, stubbornly.

"So, you bought it in a bookshop…?"

He nodded. "Yup."

"But it's not a book?"

He shook his head. "Nope."

"Would you tell me even if I guessed correctly?"

Ron laughed. "Nope."

"So, basically, this is a completely pointless conversation?"

Ron was laughing too much to answer.

"Fine," she said, "Then I give up."

"Good, then maybe we can actually finish this game."

Hermione looked down at the remnants of the chess game in front of her and frowned. "Whose turn is it?"

"Yours," he told her, rubbing his eyes, wearily. "It's been yours for about a _century_. If I didn't know any better, I might think you were stalling."

"Well, can you blame me?" She gestured at the board. "I mean, do I have _any_ chance of winning this?"

He pulled his chair back to the desk and surveyed the board in silence for about thirty seconds, then shrugged. "Well, no," he admitted. "But that's like me saying there's no point in doing my homework because I'll only do it badly."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "You know, that's actually pretty sensible coming from you."

Ron clutched at his heart as though mortally wounded, and she laughed, then shot a sly glance at him across the table.

"Oh, wait! Is it a bookmark?"

Ron groaned and slumped forward on the table, banging his head against it several times.

"Oh, no, because that's got the word '_book' _in it, hasn't it? So according to you, that makes it a _book_…"

_"Fine," _sighed Ron, lifting his head wearily off the table again, "It's a signed photo of Lockhart. I got him to write 'To Hermione, my future wife' on it."

She gasped. "You didn't!"

Ron looked revolted. "No, of course I didn't! Oh my God, you were actually really excited for a minute there, weren't you?"

"I was not!" she protested, annoyed. "And I don't fancy him! I just think he's very talented and interesting, that's all. And I admire his writing."

Ron gave a disbelieving snort. "Yeah, right. He's, like, fifty or something, you know."

"He's thirty-seven, actually! Not that it matters," she added hastily, "Because I _don't fancy him!"_

"You couldn't fancy him as much as he fancies himself, anyway," muttered Ron. "And if he's thirty-seven, then I'm Cornelius Fudge."

Hermione glared at him, and he laughed, and shook his head. "You _sooo_ fancy him..."

"I do not," she said, haughtily. "B7."

"Oh, _now_ you take your go!" he crowed, delightedly.

"Oh, shut up," snapped Hermione, who was now quite red in the face. "You're such a _child_ sometimes."

Ron gave a derisory snort of laughter. "Oh, right, yeah... 'cos now you're _nearly thirteen, _you're suddenly so mature..."

"I'm more mature than _you," _she retorted, acidly. "Mind you, that wouldn't be hard. _Amoebas_ are more mature than you."

Ron frowned. "A-_what_-as?"

"I rest my case," said Hermione, smugly, turning away from him and folding her arms tightly across her chest to indicate that she wasn't talking to him anymore.

For almost a whole minute neither of them spoke, then Ron suddenly leaned forward across the board, looked up at her, and broke into a grin.

"And I rest mine," he announced, triumphantly. "Checkmate. _Ha ha ha!"_

"Gloating isn't nice, you know," she retorted, annoyed.

"Says Miss I-Only-Got-Eighty-Four-Per-Cent-On-My-Charms-Essay-Boo-Hoo-Hoo…"

Hermione shot him her most withering look. "Shut up, Ronald."

Ron laughed.

---

* * *

_Endnote__: _

_Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and please leave a review! And a very Happy New Year to all my readers! _

_PB x_


	4. Chapter 4: Petrified

_Author's Note: _

_And we're back on schedule, huzzah! _

_Special thanks to ObsessedRHShipper and Cyndaneofc, who were so fast off the mark they left reviews for Chapter 3 in the few minutes before I had time to change my mind and delete the last section (yes, the bit where you learned what Ron's present was!) Anyway, apologies to both of you, and I do hope that upon re-reading the chapter and then reading this one, you understand why I did it, and agree with me that it works much better this way. _

_PB x

* * *

_

**Chapter Four: _(At First I Was Afraid, I Was)_ Petrified**

---

So, um, _hi_, I suppose.

This is _stupid_. You can't even hear me.

So, I just thought I'd come and say hello, really. Harry was going to come as well, but he's got an essay to finish. I've actually finished mine already, can you believe that? I finished it this afternoon while he was at Quidditch practice 'cos I wanted to come up here and see you on my own. Of course, I still haven't started the _other_ one, the one that's due in the day after tomorrow. I'll probably end up doing it on my lunch hour as usual. I do it at the last minute on purpose, you know. Just 'cos I know you really enjoy telling me off. Ha ha ha.

---

We all really miss you, you know. Not just me and Harry. Ginny's really upset about it, too. I didn't think you two knew each other very well, to be honest, but she keeps bursting into tears all over the place. Mind you, it must be a bit of a mad thing to happen in your first year. Maybe she thinks that's what school's like all the time. Monsters and trolls and stuff. Ha ha. She's probably wishing she'd just stayed at home with Mum.

----

I dunno, maybe you wish that as well. If you wake up - _when_, I mean - maybe you'll want to go back to your old Muggle school instead. Or maybe your parents will want you to be somewhere safer. Did you ever tell them about the whole nearly-being-killed-by-a-troll thing? Or the accidentally-being-half-turned-into-a-cat thing? You probably did, didn't you? "Honesty is _very_ important, Ronald." Yeah, but not if it means they take you out of school. It wouldn't be the same without you, you know. And anyway, who would I get to spellcheck my homework?

---

If not for me and Harry, at least stay for Malfoy. He'll be delighted if you leave. He'll think it's 'cos you're Muggle-born and can't hack it with the 'real' wizards. And then I'm afraid that without you here to restrain me, I'd _definitely_ have to hit him, and I'd probably get expelled and fail all my exams and end up working as a teaboy at the Ministry of Magic for the rest of my life. I ask you, would you want that on your conscience? _No_. You wouldn't. So don't leave. That's all I'm saying. Don't even _think_ about it.

---

I know exactly what you'll say, actually, when you wake up and find you've missed two months of school. Not, "_This is the best thing that's ever happened to me!" _like _I _would or any _normal_ person would, but, "Oh, no! I've missed two months of school! Fetch me my books and my quill, there's _work_ to be done!"

I'll never understand you.

You know what really pisses me off? McGonagall wasn't even going to _tell_ me! Can you _believe_ that? If I hadn't seen her talking to Harry and come over to find out what was going on, she wouldn't have said anything. Do you know what she said to me? "Oh, yes, perhaps you'd better come too, Mr. Weasley". _Perhaps!_ No, not 'perhaps'! There's no sodding 'perhaps' about it! Yeah, I would actually like to know that my friend's just been Petrified, if that's not too much trouble!

---

I mean, I'm just as much your friend as Harry is, aren't I? It's not just that _you're_ Harry's friend and _I'm_ Harry's friend. _We're_ friends as well, aren't we? When Harry's not here, or off playing Quidditch or something, it's not like we just sit there with nothing to say to each other, waiting for him to come back.

It's just really annoying, that's all. I mean, I'm here _now_, aren't I?

Hmph.

This is harder than it looks, you know. Talking to someone who can't talk back. I keep leaving a gap for you, and then remembering you can't say anything.

---

You know, I don't think I've ever had a conversation with you without you answering back. It's weird. I keep half-expecting you to wake up and tell me off for biting my nails.

---

We _are_ friends, aren't we? I always thought we were, but McGonagall… I mean, I know everyone just thinks of me as Harry's friend, or Fred and George's little brother or whatever, but you're… you know, separate. You're not just Harry's friend or somebody's sister. Well, no, obviously you're not, because you haven't got any brothers or sisters, but you know what I mean… You're a person in your own right. Like, Harry's the famous one, you're the smart one, and I'm - well, I dunno what I am.

---

No, still can't think of anything. Feel free to chip in with a suggestion, you know. Anytime you like. I've got all night. _Lie_ if you want. Tell me I'm the really cool one or something. No? Oh, well.

---

Oh, yeah, I brought you something. Well, it's not really _something_, it's just a biscuit. I wanted to leave something so if you woke up in the middle of the night you'd know I'd been here and was, you know, thinking of you and stuff. Harry's been here as well, obviously. We brought you some books. Madam Pomfrey said there wasn't much point, but I said that'd be the first thing you'd want to do when you woke up. You know, open a book. Anyone else might want a glass of water, but you'd want to _read_ something. Was I wrong? I'm starting to doubt myself now. Maybe I don't know you as well as I thought I did.

---

I just don't get it. Why wouldn't she think I'd want to know? Maybe she thinks I don't _care_ what happens to you. Well, I do! I was _just_ as upset as Harry when I saw you lying there all frozen and dead-looking and stuff.

---

I hope we _are_ friends. I thought we were, but… maybe you don't think so. Maybe nobody thinks so apart from me. I know we probably haven't got much in common or anything, but I've always thought of you as my friend. I mean, we spend all our time together, don't we? That's what friends do. We sit next to each at lunch and in lessons. Yeah. We _are_ friends, aren't we? McGonagall doesn't know what she's talking about, that's all.

---

You've got to get better soon, Hermione, Malfoy's even _more_ impossible now he's top of the class in Potions. He keeps winding me up about it, probably hoping I might try and hex him again. Snape does too, asking me questions and then saying, "Don't know the answer, Weasley? What a shame Miss Granger isn't here, I'm sure _she_ would know it. After all, Miss Granger knows _everything_." _Git. _

Sorry.

Hold on, you can't hear me, can you? I can call him anything I like. Oh, this is _brilliant! _I can _say_ anything I like, too, and you can't tell me off! I can call Malfoy a wanker and you can't say _anything_. Malfoy's a wanker and books are boring! Heh heh!

---

Oh, yeah, you'll be delighted to know the teachers are still setting you homework, so when you wake up, you can spend the entire summer holiday doing nine-foot long Transfig essays if you want. I'm sure that'll make you happy, you mad freak.

---

I didn't mean that, by the way. I was just joking. When you wake up you can hit me for that one if you want. I won't mind.

---

And I'm sorry I said you were a know-it-all the other week. I didn't mean it in a _bad _way, necessarily. You _do_ know everything. Well, maybe not _everything_, but a million more things than _me_. Which is not hard, obviously.

---

Oh, and don't worry about Malfoy stirring things up, either. I haven't hit him or anything, although I _have_ been tempted. And I'm not promising I won't, either. If I thought for a second he really _did_ have anything to do with this, I'd shove that brand new shiny Nimbus 2001 broomstick his Daddy bought him right up his –

---

Heh, well, I was going to say 'arse', obviously, but it seems a bit wrong swearing in front of a Petrified person. A bit like swearing in front of your Gran because you know she's a bit deaf and can't hear you. Not that I suppose _you've_ ever done that. The twins made me do it in front of Granny Prewett once. Apparently, in their twisted little world, it's really funny to get your little brother to swear at your Gran, especially when you know full well that Mum's in the next room and is gonna hear every single word, and go completely _mental. _"Ronnie, Mum says, can you go and ask Gran if she'd like a cup of that special new Chinese tea she likes? It's called Pha King tea..."

---

Seriously, I think my left ear was ringing for about a _week_ after the slap Mum gave me. Bloody twins. Are you laughing? I think you are. Somewhere in there I think you're laughing at me. Well, that's fine. You go ahead and laugh. Anything's better than you just lying there staring into space.

---

You've got this shocked sort of look on your face, you know. Not _scared _shocked, just… well, it's quite a Hermione-ish look, actually. A bit like the look you get when you work out a problem in class. Like, "Yeah, I think I get this now. Yes! I do! I understand!" And then you look really happy afterwards. Yeah, it's the look you get just before you look really happy because you've worked something out.

---

You know what I've just realised? I could draw a moustache on you, and you wouldn't even know! That would be really funny, actually. You'd probably kill me when you woke up, of course, but it would almost be worth it. It's a shame Colin's camera got broken when he got Petrified, 'cos otherwise I could've borrowed it and taken a picture. Well, I _could_ have, but it wouldn't be very nice, would it? I mean, if _I _were a girl, and I'd been lying here Petrified for weeks, I'd probably be worried someone would have come in and looked up my skirt or something.

Ummm… I _haven't_, by the way. So don't worry about that. I wouldn't do it even if you _weren't_ Petrified.

Oh, bloody hell, that's _worse_, isn't it? See, that's why I need you here, Hermione, to look really horrified when I say something stupid. I didn't mean to say that, though. It just sort of came out of my mouth. Heh, I can hear your voice in my head: "Oh, for Heaven's sake, Ronald, engage brain before opening mouth next time! Or at least try not to put your great big foot in it!" Ha ha ha!

---

Hey, this'll make you laugh. Well, maybe not _laugh_, exactly, but… I burned right through a cauldron in Potions today and bloody Snape made me stay behind and clean all the school cauldrons until I could see my face in them. Well, that's not exactly what he said, obviously. Something along the lines of "until you can see every last revolting freckle". Nice, eh? He wouldn't let me go until they'd stopped serving lunch, the git. I bet he did it on purpose.

---

See, that wouldn't have happened if you'd been there, Hermione. You'd have noticed the cauldron was burning, wouldn't you? _I_ didn't. I got really confused trying to work out whether I'd used enough powdered asphodel root and why my potion was green while everyone else's was purple, and the next thing I knew there was this horrible burning smell, and Malfoy was looking as though all his Christmases had come at once.

---

Anyway, I should probably go soon. I've got this massive essay to write, and I really don't want to be still writing it during my lunch hour on Wednesday. I'm thinking of telling them I was too traumatised by seeing you Petrified, what do you reckon? Yeah, you're probably right. "Don't be silly, Ron. You can't _lie_ to a teacher."

---

I'm filling in your lines for you now, Hermione. You've got to wake up soon or I'll start arguing with myself as well. I'll be telling myself off for not doing my homework on time and to stop biting my nails. "Have you done your homework, Ron?" No, I haven't, Ron." "Oh, for God's sake, Ron!" "Stop nagging, Ron!" "Oh, shut up!" "No, you shut up!" Heh heh.

Oh, _come_ on, it's no fun me doing it on my own!

What else can I talk to you about? Shall I tell you what I had for dinner tonight? Well, I had steak and kidney pie, with mash and peas and gravy, and then apple crumble. Well, two helpings of apple crumble. Yeah, I know what you're going to say, but I was really hungry 'cos I missed lunch, you see. And Harry had two helpings as well; it wasn't just me being greedy. It was nice - obviously, since I had two portions - but not as good as my mum's. Her chicken and ham pie is the best thing _ever_. Seriously, if I knew I was gonna die tomorrow, that's what I'd want to eat for my last meal. You'll have to come and stay sometime, then you can try it. Only if you want to, obviously. I'd have to tidy up my bedroom a bit first, though. It's a bit orange at the moment. I'm used to it, but you might not like it. Harry said it gave him a headache. You could stay in Ginny's room, I'm sure she wouldn't mind.

---

I think you'd like it, if you came. Although, I dunno, I supposed you're used to having loads of space and it being really quiet and stuff. It's not quiet at _our_ house. I don't think it's _ever_ been quiet at our house, not since Bill was born, and that was twenty-two years ago. Harry seemed to like it when he came to stay last summer, although now that I come to think about it, he grew up in a cupboard, so he probably thinks anything with a _window's_ impressive.

---

Anyway, the offer's there, if you want to come. If your parents let you. I suppose they might not want you to come after that whole Lucius Malfoy business. Can't blame them, I suppose. I mean, they get introduced to their first ever wizarding family, and then five minutes later, there's my Dad, fighting in a bookshop. That's probably like fighting in _church_ to them, isn't it? I thought it was pretty cool, though. My dad punched Malfoy's dad! Seriously, it may actually have been one of the proudest moments of my _life_.

---

It was really funny afterwards, 'cos Mum was in a massive strop about it for the rest of the day, and the rest of us were all like, "Way to go, Dad!" He kept telling us, "Now, boys, you do know that what your father did was a very bad thing, don't you? You mustn't get into fights, especially in public. Er, no, what I mean is, _at_ _any time_…" Ha ha. Mum was _sooo_ furious. We were just happy 'cos she wasn't annoyed with _us_ for a change.

---

Actually, I do feel pretty bad about the whole thing, 'cos then there was all that business about a week later when me and Harry borrowed his car and it got in the paper, and Dad got into trouble at work about it. It's a good thing your parents don't get the Prophet, otherwise Merlin knows what they'd think of us.

---

Actually, I hope that's not what _you_ think. I know it was the first time you'd met my parents and all, so I _really_ hope you don't think that. We're not really like that, honestly. My dad's usually really quiet and sensible. He's never hit anyone in his life. It was just because Malfoy's dad was winding him up, saying all that stuff about him not being able to provide for his family and - well, anyway, you were there, you remember.

---

Your parents wouldn't _really_ take you out of school, would they? I know this wouldn't have happened if you'd been at a Muggle school, but you do _like_ it here, don't you?

I _really_ hope you didn't tell them about the whole stealing Dad's car thing. They might not want us to be friends anymore if you did. I dunno, I sort of got the impression they were a bit... _disappointed_ when you introduced us in Flourish & Blott's, do you know what I mean? I think it might have been the way you said, "Mum, Dad, this is Ron. He's a _wizard!"_ And then you all looked at me like you expected me to do something magical on the spot, like turn myself into a bunch of flowers or something. What is it about Muggles and bunches of flowers? Dad says whenever he meets Muggles, that's always the first thing they ask him to do. "Can you turn this desk/ cup/ cat into a bunch of flowers?" _Weird_.

---

Do they know we're not allowed to use our wands outside of school until we're seventeen? They probably do, don't they? I bet you tell them _everything_. I bet you write great big long letters that fill up about thirty foot of parchment. "Dear Mum and Dad, Hope you are well. Sorry I haven't written for a couple of weeks, but I got Petrified by the monster that lives under the castle." Ha ha! Yeah, somehow I don't think you'll be telling them _that_ one! 'Cos I don't think they'd let you come back to school if you did. They'd make you go to a Muggle school, and you know how much you hated that. Don't tell them. Seriously, don't.

---

Oh, yeah, I got a letter from my brother Charlie! Well, _I_ didn't personally, it was to Percy and Ginny and Fred and George as well. You'd like Charlie, he's a top bloke. He's the one that works with dragons in Romania, remember? He doesn't write very often - well, he doesn't really write at all, he's more of an outdoors type - so it was nice to get a letter. He sent a photo of a new baby dragon that hatched on the reserve. I'll show you it when you wake up if you like. It's quite cute, I suppose. If you can say that a twelve foot fire-breathing dragon is cute. They've called it Gertie. It's not a very dragony name, is it? Gertie. I would have called it something really cool, like Deathclaw or Firequeen or something. The way Charlie goes on about it, you'd think it was his own kid, not a bloody dragon baby. If he ever does have kids, he'll probably be all, "Oh, is that the baby? Where's its wings? _No wings? _Pfft! Send it back!" Ha ha ha!

---

I can just imagine you with _your_ kids, actually. You'd probably be expecting it to come out with a book in one hand and a quill in the other. "Oh, hello, Mother. Is the library open yet? I know I'm only five seconds old but I really want to get a head start on this Charms essay they're going to set in 2011." Ha ha ha ha!

---

God, I'm laughing to myself in an empty room, I must be cracking up. Well, I suppose I'm already _talking_ to myself, so it doesn't really make much difference.

---

This is kind of creepy, actually. You're here, and so are Colin and Justin and that fifth year Prefect Penelope Clearwater that Percy knows, but you're all really quiet and still, and it's not even like you're asleep, because I can't see you breathing, you're just… lying there, like statues or something. It's weird. I don't think I like it much. And there's no-one else in here, _and_ it's dark outside, so it feels a bit like I'm in some sort of crypt. Ooh, I actually made myself _shiver,_ then!

---

What's with the mirror, anyway? Were you checking your hair or something? Not that there's anything wrong with your hair. I dunno why you keep banging on about it, to be honest. At least people can't see _your _hair from _space_. But then, what do _I_ know? As you might have noticed, clothes and hair and stuff isn't really top of my list of priorities. I mean, _look!_ Look at my shoe! The sole's peeling away from the side! Alright, don't look, then. It's pretty disgusting, actually. It looks like it's got some sort of fungus. My toe's practically sticking through the end as well. Seriously, it's ridiculous. It looks like my foot's trying to escape or something.

---

Mum says it's my fault for being tall for my age. I'd rather be tall than short, though. Shit, I hope I don't get to fifteen or something and stop growing. That would be _terrible_. Anyway, I've got to at least be taller than the twins so I can get them back for all the times they beat me up when I was little. And I need to be taller than my mum as well, 'cos that would be _really_ embarrassing. You have to at least be taller than _girls, _otherwise it looks weird.

---

Charlie had this girlfriend when he was about sixteen who was a couple of inches taller than him. She came round our house once wearing these really high-heeled shoes; it was _hilarious._ Charlie was mortified. I don't think he wanted her to come over in the first place because he was worried Fred and George would play some sort of trick on her or Mum would start asking her when they were getting married and stuff. I think it might have been their only date, actually. The shoes were probably the last straw. Well, that, and the fact that the twins took the piss out of him for _weeks_. Bill doesn't have that problem, 'cos he's quite tall. And nor does Percy, but that's just because no girl in her right mind would want to go out with him, ha ha!

---

Hmm, there's a thought, actually... Maybe _you_ would? If nothing else, just because he's a Prefect and he hangs around in libraries a lot. I'm joking, obviously. You'd have better taste than that. Well, I _say_ that, but then you only fancy fifty year old idiots, don't you? Seriously, Hermione, _Lockhart? _And don't give me all that rubbish about admiring his 'work', you just like the way he tosses his hair when he tells one of his not very funny jokes. I bet he dyes it as well.

---

Personally I'm hoping he goes the same way as Quirrell. It's not like we're even learning anything, apart from what Professor Lockhart's favourite colour is and what he likes on his toast in the morning. What is it, raspberry jam? Marmalade? I bet you actually know the answer, don't you? I bet you've got some sort of colour-coded _chart._

_---_

If had any money, I'd bet all of it on _you_ being a Prefect when we get to fifth year. That would be the easiest money I've ever made. Yeah, you'll _definitely_ be a Prefect. Probably be Head Girl, too. Then you can boss _everyone_ around and not just me, ha ha! You'd _love_ that, wouldn't you? Would you dock me House points for not having my shirt tucked in? I bet you would. "Rules are meant to apply to _everyone_, Ronald! I can't be seen to be playing favourites!"

---

Hey, did you know you get your own room if you're Head Girl or Boy? How cool would that be? Mind you, I suppose you're used to it, aren't you, being an only child? You've probably had your own room your whole life. I had to share with Ginny until I was eight. Sharing a room with your little sister is no fun at all, I can tell you. It always used to really annoy me because Mum would make us go to bed at the same time, even though I was a year older, because otherwise I'd wake her up. I mean, is that fair? It's not, is it? I should get to go to bed at least an hour later, I reckon. And I couldn't even read in bed or anything because the light would keep Ginny awake.

---

Yeah, you heard right, I did say 'read'. I _can_ actually _read_, you know. Alright, so it was mainly comics, but that still counts, doesn't it? Maybe not in your house where you probably all sat around reading encyclopaedias to each other before you went to bed, but it's still _reading..._

_---_

Oh, yeah, I thought you'd want to know: you got ninety one per cent in that Charms essay we did last week. Top of the class as usual, Miss Granger, well done. I got sixty three per cent. Better than the last one, but not much. So I suppose that makes you officially - hang on, let me work it out - twenty eight per cent better than me! Is that right? Yeah, I think so. Sixty three, seventy three, eighty three, plus seven is ninety, plus one is ninety one. That _is _right. Hey, I'm smarter than I think I am! Ha ha. Yeah, _right_.

---

Um… look, while I'm here, I should probably tell you… you know last year I told you I bought you one of those self-inking quills you really wanted for your birthday, but then it accidentally got broken at the bottom of my trunk and I threw it away? Yeah, um, that didn't actually happen. I _did_ get you a present, honest, but it was just an ordinary quill, not one of the self-inking ones, and I _was_ going to give it to you, but then I thought it was a really sh- _rubbish_ present and you probably already had loads of quills anyway, so… well, it _did_ get broken, but… it wasn't exactly an _accident_. So... I'm sorry. I know you were probably really pissed off with me 'cos you thought I didn't get you a birthday present. Maybe that's why McGonagall doesn't think we're proper friends.

---

I did get your name engraved on it, though. It wasn't just one of those cheap ones that come in a box of ten. It was a whole extra Sickle to get a name on it in this fancy gold writing, and I thought you'd like it, but then I thought about it and realised that actually you probably wouldn't. Not when you'd said that you really wanted a self-inking one, and they were a whole Galleon, and I didn't have a whole Galleon, so - so, yeah, I trod on it. On purpose. I'm really, _really_ sorry.

---

It _was_ rubbish, though. They only had room for fifteen letters, see, including the space between the words, so they could either put, 'HERMIONEGRANGER', all in one word, or 'HERMIONE space GRANGE' without the 'R' on the end, which, obviously, would be really stupid. So anyway, the woman in the shop suggested I put 'HERMIONE'S QUILL', 'cos that's fifteen letters including the apostrophe, and I thought that was a really brilliant idea at first and I was really pleased with it, but then afterwards when I looked at it again I thought that actually now you were thirteen and all, you'd probably think it was really stupid to have your name on something, so - well, _you know_. The stamping.

---

Next year I promise I'll get you something better. Well, anything's better than _nothing_, but you know what I mean. Something not rubbish. Something you actually want. Maybe not a self-inking quill, though. Not unless Auntie Muriel finally kicks the bucket and leaves me a ton of money, anyway. So don't get your hopes up _too_ much.

---

Listen, if I had the money to buy things that _weren't_ rubbish, I wouldn't be wearing these bloody shoes, that's for sure. No-one should have to wear second-hand shoes. It should be, like, _illegal_ or something. I think these were Percy's before I got them. And these trousers were Bill's, and this shirt was bloody Charlie's. I think the only thing I'm actually wearing that's new are my pants. _Eurgh! _That would be really disgusting, wouldn't it? Imagine having to wear second-hand _pants! _I think I'd actually rather go without than wear some of Percy's old pants.

---

Lots of old wizards don't wear them, actually. I bet you didn't know that, did you? My Granddad Prewett never wore a pair of underpants in his life. It's a Muggle thing, really. I don't think we started wearing them until this century. Or something. I dunno. You could probably look it up in a book if you wanted. I don't know about witches, either. Well, it's not exactly something you can ask, is it? "So, Grandma, are you wearing knickers under your robes?" Heh, can you imagine me asking her _that? _I'd still be grounded _now! _

_---_

I bet you've never been grounded in your life, have you? Mind you, I can't imagine what punishment they could give you that you wouldn't secretly quite enjoy. "Go to your bedroom and stay there until you've learnt the error of your ways!" You'd probably love that, wouldn't you? As long as you had all your books there, it'd be like a special treat or something. Me, I hate it. It's too quiet up there on my own, it freaks me out. I'm not used to quiet. I go a bit mental if there's no-one to talk to. That's why I don't like it up here. It's probably why I'm rambling a bit as well.

---

Still, it's not too bad now that I've got Scabbers, 'cos he makes a noise running around in his cage, and it's like there's someone else in the room with me, so it's nice. And I didn't mind sharing a room with Harry either. It's different when it's a friend rather than your sister. I've never had a friend to stay before. Offer still stands, by the way. I'll even put Scabbers in the shed if you don't want him in the room. Or, you know, you can just kip in Ginny's room, like I said.

---

You've never had a pet, have you? Well, if you do, don't get a rat. Scabbers is pretty rubbish, to be honest. He doesn't really _do_ anything. You can't walk him, like a dog, and you can't use him to send letters, like Harry's owl. He just sort of _lies _there. He might as well be dead sometimes. He's still better than Neville's toad, though. Why would you want a toad? _And_ he keeps escaping. Not Scabbers, Neville's toad. What's he called again? Oh, yeah; _Trevor_. Stupid name for a toad. Mind you, Scabbers isn't much better. I didn't even get to pick his name, Percy did. Dunno what I would have called him. _Useless_, maybe.

Madam Pomfrey keeps looking at the clock and glaring at me, so I think maybe she wants me to leave.

I hope you feel better, anyway. Enjoy the biscuit. Actually, no, _don't_. Don't eat it. It's been in my pocket, so it's probably all covered in fluff and bits of fingernail and stuff. Sorry. That's really disgusting, isn't it? Ha ha.

So, um, _'bye_, then.

And I'm _waving_ at a Petrified person...

-----

* * *

_Endnote__:_

_Slightly longer than my planned circa 3,000 word limit for this story, but that's just because I love writing Ron so much. I could have made it five times as long, believe me. And it's still pretty short by my usual standards! Anyway, hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it, and please let me know what you thought of the chapter. Thank you! _

_Pb x_


	5. Chapter 5: Stress

**Chapter Five: Stress**

_---_

"You weren't at dinner."

Hermione gritted her teeth, but didn't look up. She didn't need to, to know who that accusing tone belonged to, and who was standing there, casting a long shadow across her textbook.

"Yes, I'd spotted that," she said, acidly, "Thank you _so_ much for pointing it out."

"You've got to eat something, you know. You'll make yourself ill."

"I've got too much to _do_, Ron. Can you just go away and leave me alone please? You're blocking my light."

She glanced up from her books and caught sight of his hurt expression.

"I'm sorry, Ron, but I've got to read this before I can go to bed, and then I've got to get up at six so I can read through my notes again before the exam at nine. I haven't got the _time_ to be sitting here talking to you. I'm sorry."

"You'll eat breakfast, though?" Ron asked, alarmed.

"Well, of course I'll eat _breakfast!_ It would be no good at all doing an exam without eating breakfast, would it? I'm not an idiot! God, is food _all_ you think about?"

"I'm worried about you, that's all."

"Well, there's absolutely no need to be. You ought to be worrying about your _own_ exams, frankly."

"I haven't got any tomorrow. The next one's Charms on Thursday morning."

"Oh, well, in that case, I apologise. There's absolutely no need at _all_ for you to be revising for an exam that happens the day _after_ tomorrow."

"Herm-"

"_Please_, Ron," she begged, almost in tears now, "I really _have_ got far too much to do. Just... go and distract someone else, will you?"

Ron scrutinised her for a few moments, then shook his head. "No," he said, firmly, "Sorry. Can't do that." And he pulled out a chair and sat down opposite her.

"Have you eaten anything at all since lunch?"

She shook her head. "I'm not hungry."

"Oh, okay."

_Pause_.

"So you won't want these biscuits, then?"

She looked up, sharply. He had pushed a small irregular-shaped package wrapped in a white paper serviette across the table towards her, his fingertips resting lightly on the top of it, and an annoying little smile teasing at the corners of his mouth. She glanced at the package longingly and then quickly away again.

"You can't eat biscuits in the library, Ron. It's forbidden."

"I'm not eating them, though, am I? _You're_ eating them."

"I told you already, I'm not _hungry."_

"Fine. I'll just leave them here, then, shall I?"

And he took his hand away from the little package and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest in an annoyingly pleased with himself manner, as though he already knew she was going to give in, and was merely waiting for his moment of triumph so he could have a good gloat. Well, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction.

"_You_ can do whatever you want," she said, in as nonchalant a tone as she could manage, "_I've _got work to do."

She turned deliberately back to her book and pretended to read it, although she was thoroughly aware of the tempting little white package that was lying tantalisingly just on the edge of her line of vision, and Ron's presence on the other side of the desk. Finally, after having read the same line for at least the eighteenth time, she gave in and looked up, with a resigned sigh.

"_What?"_

Ron gave a small, disbelieving laugh. "I wasn't doing anything!"

"Well, would you mind 'not doing anything' somewhere _else?_ You're distracting me!"

"How am I distracting you, Hermione? I'm just sitting here! I'm not even saying anything!"

"I can't concentrate with you in the room!"

"Well..." Ron was rather at a loss for words. "I can't help that, can I? And anyway, that's obviously rubbish, or you wouldn't get top marks in Charms, and we sit next to each other all the time in that!"

He looked insufferably pleased with himself after apparently disproving her theory, and she gritted her teeth in annoyance.

"Well, you're distracting me _now_, so please, will you just..." - she lowered her voice and leant forward across the table as the librarian Madame Pince came into sight - "Go back to the common room and let me study in peace. _Please?"_

"Alright."

Hermione was somewhat taken aback. She had expected more of a protest. "Really?"

Ron shrugged. "Yeah. If that's what you want. I don't want to distract you from your work."

"Well..." she said, hesitantly. "OK. Thank you."

"Yeah, as soon as you eat those biscuits, I'll leave you alone."

"_Ron!"_ she groaned, annoyed with herself for falling for so obvious a trick.

"Come on, it's five tiny little biscuits for a whole evening of peace and quiet! That's a good deal in _anyone's _book, surely?"

"Ronald -"

"Oh, just _eat_ the bloody biscuits, will you?"

She stared at him, outraged. "_Fine!_ If it means you'll_ shut up _about it! Give them here, then!"

She snatched the little package from his fingers and hid it quickly in her lap, out of view of Madam Pince. After a quick glance to check no-one was watching, she bent her head, unwrapped it, and quickly popped a whole custard cream in her mouth. Oh, God, the _bliss! _She hadn't realised quite how hungry she really was. Her stomach gave an approving gurgle, and Ron raised his eyebrows reproachfully at her.

"Oh, shut up," she snapped, "I didn't _mean_ to miss dinner. I was just busy working and lost track of the time, that's all."

"_Nobody_ should be too busy to eat dinner."

"Yes, I _know _that. I just _said_ it was an _accident_, didn't I? _What?"_

Ron was grinning annoyingly at her.

"_What?"_ she repeated.

He shook his head. "Nothing. Eat the biscuits."

She was too tired to argue with him. Resignedly, she bent her head and quickly crammed a chocolate digestive into her mouth.

"Oh, _God_, that's good," she said, thickly, through a mouthful of biscuit. "Thanks."

"S'alright," said Ron, his ears turning red for some reason, "I was going to bring you some of the shepherd's pie we had for dinner, but I didn't think it would travel well in my pocket…"

Hermione choked on her biscuit, and Ron laughed at her laughing. He got up from his chair and gave her a couple of thumps on the back until her coughing fit ceased.

"Shouldn't… laugh… and... eat biscuits… at the… same time!" she gasped, her eyes watering.

Ron chuckled, and sat back down again. "No, probably not. Sorry."

Hermione rubbed her eyes wearily, and failed to stifle her yawn in time to hide it from his critical gaze.

"How long have you been sitting there?" he demanded.

She glanced at her watch. "Six - no, _seven_ hours. Oh, _God!"_

She let her head fall forward onto the desk, and let out a moan of frustration.

"Come for a walk. Just for five minutes, just to stretch your legs."

"_Noooo..."_ she moaned, into the desk. "I ate the biscuits, didn't I? What more do you want?"

"You'll work better if you have a break, you know."

"Oh, well, excuse me if I don't take _your_ advice on how to revise for exams!"

They looked at each other.

She sighed, loudly. "You're not going to leave me alone until I say yes, are you?"

A faint smile appeared on his face. "Nope."

"Fine. _Fine!_ You're a _massive pain_, you do know that, don't you?"

"Well, I wouldn't if you didn't keep telling me..."

She closed her book, left her jumper over the back of the chair so no-one else would sit in her place, and gave him a resentful look.

"Five minutes. I mean it."

As soon as they emerged into the corridor outside the library, she realised how tired she really was. Her legs felt like lead, and her calves ached with every step. Her back was stiff from sitting down hunched over her books for so long, and she could still see words dancing on the page in front of her eyes.

They walked in silence for a few minutes down darkened corridors. Hermione wasn't really aware of where they were going, she just walked beside him blindly, her mind almost numb from exhaustion.

"Where's Harry?" she asked finally, shaking herself back into consciousness.

Ron chuckled. "Revising."

"Really?"

"Really. I will be too, later. I just wanted to come and see if you were alright first."

She stiffened. "Well, as you can see I'm perfectly fine, so..."

"Oh, yeah, you're just great. Practically asleep on your feet, but apart from that, just dandy..."

She bit her lip in annoyance. She really hated it when he was right about something.

"Where are we going, anyway?"

"Nowhere, we're just walking."

She stopped dead in the middle of the corridor, and he did too.

"Well, that's rather pointless, isn't it?" she said, scathingly.

"Well, the _point_ was to stretch your legs and get you away from your desk for five minutes, so..." He cocked his head on one side and pretended to consider. "No, I wouldn't say it was _pointless_."

Lost for a snappy retort, she merely gave a snort of derision and started walking again at high speed, still with no idea of where she was going. Ron caught her up quickly.

"I don't know what you're worrying about, anyway. You'll pass with flying colours. You always do."

"Because I _revise_, Ronald! Because I work hard and don't waste time -"

"Eating dinner? _Sleeping?"_

"No, because I don't waste time wandering aimlessly about the castle when I have an exam in the morning!"

"They're only end-of-year exams, Hermione. They're not even important."

Hermione stared at him, flabbergasted. "Not even _import-"_

"I mean, _Christ_, if this is what you're like _now_, what are you going to be like when we take our OWLs?"

"Well, I wouldn't expect _you_ to understand -"

"Oh, right, because I'm bound to fail them anyway, I suppose!"

"No! That's not what I was going to say! Because this is what I _do!_ I pass exams! I get top marks in all my lessons!"

Exhausted tears were streaming down her face now, and Ron took an involuntary step backwards, dismayed.

"I _have_ to be good at this – _better_ than good – I have to be _the best_ – because if I'm not the best at it, then what am I? I'm _nothing!_ This is the only thing I can _do!"_

Ron stared at her, rather lost as to how to respond to a sobbing, hysterical Hermione. "That's mental. You're good at millions of things. I'm only good at chess and telling stupid jokes, and what use is that?"

"I'm going to fail, I just know it, I'm going to fail everything and they'll expel me, and I'll have to go back to a Muggle school, and I won't ever see you or Harry ever again, and -"

"You're not going to _fail_, Hermione. You're brilliant. You'll get top marks, just like you always do. You've just been revising too hard and got a bit stressed out, that's all."

She gave a disbelieving laugh, through her tears. "A _bit!"_

Ron reached out and gave her shoulder an awkward pat. "Tell you what, if you get expelled, I'll punch Malfoy in the face so I get expelled too, then I can come to your new school with you, how's that?"

She laughed. "Don't be stupid, you couldn't go to a _Muggle_ school!"

"Why not? You could teach me everything I need to know."

The idea of Ron at a Muggle secondary school was so absurd she really _did_ start laughing, almost bent double with exhaustion-induced hysteria.

"It's not _that_ funny," he protested.

She pulled herself together quickly and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "No, I know. I'm sorry." She looked up at him and smiled. "You know what?"

"What?" he asked, warily.

"You should come and stay with me. When exams are over, in the holidays. Come and stay for a week. I can show you all the places I've told you about, and you can see what a Muggle house is like."

He stared at her, not quite believing it. "What about your parents, though? Won't they mind?"

"No, of course not, they'll be delighted to have you. They've heard so much about you already, they'd love to spend time with a real wizard."

A slow smile spread across his face. "Really?"

"Really. Oh, _please_ say yes, it'll be so much fun! You haven't got any other plans for the holidays, have you?"

He shook his head.

She squealed with delight, gave him a quick, tight hug, then pulled away again, jabbering away about all the places they could visit.

Ron was feeling rather dazed. What was with all the hugging all of a sudden? That was the second time in a fortnight. He hoped this wasn't going to be a regular thing. It always made him feel rather embarrassed. _Boys_ did not _hug_. Didn't she know _anything?_

"Oh, this is _wonderful! _I've never had a friend to stay before! You can stay in the spare room, and -"

"I'd have my own _room?"_ Ron interrupted, stunned.

"Yes, of course. We have a spare room for guests. It has an en-suite as well."

"A what?"

"An en-suite. Oh, I forgot, you probably don't know what that is. Well, it means you'd have your own bathroom, for only you to use."

Ron stared at her, mouth open in awe. He'd never _heard _of such a thing. "Have _you_ got your own bathroom as well?"

She laughed. "No, of course not! It's just for guests."

_Of course not. _Silly question, obviously.

"How big is your house, Hermione?"

"Not that big. It's just a normal sized town house."

"How many bedrooms?"

"Three."

Ron was looking relieved. "Oh, well, not _that_ big, then -"

"Well, of course, it's really a _six _bedroom house, but Mum and Dad converted two of the bedrooms into offices -"

"They've both got their own _offices?_ At _home?"_

"Yes, although Dad mainly uses his to store his record collection. Oh, and they converted one of the smaller bedrooms into the en-suite for the spare bedroom, so it's really only a five bedroom house now. Not that big at all, really."

"Oh," said Ron, weakly. _Yeah, tiny._

"Oh, my _God!_" Hermione suddenly exclaimed, clapping her hand to her forehead, "We've been standing here talking for _at least_ ten minutes already! I really must get back to the library! I only have an hour and a half before it closes, and I really need to finish reading -"

She caught herself, stopped abruptly and smiled at him. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"Being a good friend. And I'm sorry I snapped at you earlier."

Ron flushed. "Oh, well, don't worry about it, that's what I'm here for. I can take it, you know."

"Oh, I'm quite sure you can."

They grinned at each other, then Hermione's expression suddenly grew serious.

"Ron," she said, abruptly, "I really _am_ sorry about Scabbers."

Ron stiffened. "It's fine," he said shortly. "You've already apologised for that, so…"

He tailed off, keeping his gaze fixed firmly on the ground.

She frowned. "Yes, I know, but -"

Ron cut her off quickly. "He was a rubbish pet, anyway. He just ate and slept all the time. It's no great loss, to be honest."

He tried for an airy, couldn't-care-less shrug and willed her to change the subject. He had just about forgiven her for refusing to accept that her bloody cat had eaten Scabbers, and the last thing he wanted was her stirring up the whole business all over again. Those few months when they had not been talking to each other had been difficult, and horrible, and he never wanted to go through something like that again. And anyway, she could apologise all she liked, but it wasn't going to bring his pet back, was it?

She just didn't understand. How could she? Scabbers was the one thing he had that was _his_, _just_ his (and even then he had been a hand-me-down from Percy), and now he had gone. Snatched away in the prime of his life. He knew he shouldn't care so much - he was fourteen now, after all - but the truth was, he _did_ care. Very much.

"It's fine," he repeated, dully. "I mean, that's what cats _do_, isn't it?"

_Stupid, fat, greedy, ginger, rat-murdering cats, anyway._

"Well…" she said, doubtfully, "Thank you for being so understanding about it, anyway."

"Mm," he said, kicking savagely at the floor and rather giving away his true feelings on the subject.

There was a short, somewhat tense silence.

_Think of a joke. Say something funny. Change the subject. _

"So, are you really serious about me coming to stay, then?"

"Absolutely!" she beamed, grateful that an argument had been avoided, "I'll write to them tomorrow."

_"Tomorrow?" _he joked weakly, pretending to misunderstand, "What, _during_ the _exam?"_

"Well, obviously not during the _exam_, Ronald, no."

"Well, I dunno, yesterday you had your Herbology and Ancient Runes exams at the same time, so…"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, scathingly, "Of course I didn't have them at the _same time!_ It would be a physical impossibility!"

"Hmm," said Ron, raising his eyebrows at her questioningly. "Why do I get the feeling there's something you're not telling me?"

Hermione looked away quickly to hide her smile. "I really can't imagine."

"Hmm," said Ron again.

"I'll write to them tomorrow," she said, changing the subject swiftly, "It'll be nice to have something to look forward to after the exams."

"Most people would just be happy the exams were over."

"Yes, and so will I, despite what you obviously think. I'm not _enjoying_ being this stressed, you know."

"Well, you shouldn't have taken on so many subjects, should you? I mean, _Muggle Studies? _That's just _ridiculous_. You're _Muggle-born! _You already know everything there is to know about Muggles!"

"Yes, alright," she said crisply. "I'm not disagreeing with you. I won't be taking it next year, I can promise you that."

"And you won't be doing Divination, either," said Ron, mischievously, "Honestly, that was the coolest thing you've ever done, I swear. Me and Harry were _sooo_ impressed..."

Hermione felt her face heat up, for some reason. "Well, you shouldn't have been. It wasn't something to be proud of. I still can't believe I did it."

"I can't believe you did it, either," he said, teasingly, "Sensible Hermione Granger, storming out of a lesson! The world must be coming to an end!"

She shoved him in the arm. "Shut up! And anyway, the world would only _really_ be coming to an end if _you_ ever did your _homework_ on time."

"Har har," said Ron, dryly, and they both laughed.

"Oh, _God," _she exclaimed, catching sight of the time, "Look, I really _do_ have to go now, but... thank you. It helped."

"Not so stressed anymore, then?"

"No. But I really do need to get back to the library."

"Alright, well -"

"I promise I'll eat the rest of the biscuits, OK? And I promise I won't miss any more meals, either."

"Good," said Ron, mock-sternly. "Otherwise I'll be back to annoy you tomorrow night as well."

"You won't. You've got an exam on Thursday morning, remember?"

"Yeah, but unlike you, I don't intend to revise until I'm half-dead for an exam that I'm only likely to get about forty per cent for anyway."

"That's rather a defeatist attitude, don't you think?" she scolded.

Ron shrugged. "Just one based on experience."

"You _are_ going to do _some_ revision tonight, though, aren't you?" she asked, anxiously.

A slow grin spread across his face. "Why? Would you come and stand behind me and _make_ me do it if I didn't?"

She laughed. "No, I would not! I've got enough of my _own_ revision to be getting on with, thank you very much. Now stop using me to distract yourself from your revision, and get back to work!"

Ron laughed. "I can't believe you think I only came to see you to get out of revision. That _hurts_, Hermione."

"Oh, shut up," she grinned. "I'm going now."

"Fine, go."

"I am."

"Go, then."

"Watch me."

She started walking back towards the library, still with a huge smile plastered across her face.

"And don't stay up too late working!" he called after her.

"Yes, Dad," she threw back at him, and was gratified to hear him chuckling as she turned the corner.

Ron watched her go, then turned back in the direction of the common room with a sigh. _Bollocks_. Now he was actually going to have to do some _work. _

---

* * *

_Endnote__: _

_It's starting to heat up a bit now, isn't it? Hope you enjoyed it, and please take just a few moments to show your appreciation by clicking on that big green button below. Cheers!_

_PB x_

_p.s: You know that bit at the end where I ask nicely every week for you to leave a review? That means YOU, people who have the story on alert but never review! Consider it your easiest ever New Year's Resolution: it'll give you a nice warm fuzzy feeling inside, and more importantly in these cash-strapped times, it's FREE! As Mrs Doyle would say, "Ah, go on..."_


	6. Chapter 6: Flaffle

_Author's Note__:_

_A slightly longer wait for this chapter, mainly because it was so arse-freezingly cold in London last week I was typing this in bed with fingerless gloves and a hat on. I don't know about you, but personally I find it hard to concentrate when I can't feel my limbs._

_PB x_

_p.s: It might help you to remember that this chapter takes place in 1994. Ah, the memories!

* * *

_

**Chapter Six: Flaffle**

-----

She knocked softly on the door and waited, her heart thumping in her chest.

"Come in!"

She leant her forehead against the door for a moment to steady her nerves, then took a deep breath and pushed it open, forcing a smile on her face.

"Morning!" she said, brightly, "Did you sleep alright?"

Ron was in the process of sitting up in bed, stifling a yawn and looking highly delighted to see her bearing a cup of hot, sweet tea.

"Yeah, pretty well. Is that for me?"

"Yes, but it's hot. I'll put it down on the bedside table for you."

She put down the cup carefully and then stepped quickly back from the bed, very conscious of his presence close by. Why did she feel so flustered? Yesterday morning she'd bought him a cup of tea in bed, and everything had been fine and normal and _proper_, and then...

And then yesterday afternoon, she'd wondered what it might be like to kiss him.

And now _everything_ was different. Well, Ron was still the same, of course. As blissfully unaware as ever. But everything else was different. He was here, at her parents' house, the house that she'd lived in nearly her whole life, where magic never impinged on their very normal lives. Sitting up in bed in her parents' spare room, blowing on his tea to cool it down, and resplendent in a horribly clashing combination of red hair, orange Cannons t-shirt, and maroon pyjamas. Ostensibly everything was exactly the same as it was yesterday, except that _today_...

Today all she could think about was _it_, _him_, somehow couldn't stop staring at his mouth, wondering...

Yesterday, after – _the moment_ – she had been all over the place. It was sunstroke. It was a fleeting moment of madness. It was her time of the month. There was some other explanation – _had_ to be some other explanation, other than the obvious one, the one she refused to entertain the possibility of, because it was going to make her life very complicated indeed if it were true. She could not, would not, absolutely _did not_ fancy Ron.

"Aren't you going to sit down?" he asked, gesturing carelessly towards the bed.

"_What?"_

Was she blushing? She _was!_ She could feel her entire face heat up as though someone had held a candle to it. And all he'd asked was if she was going to sit on the end of the bed, just as she'd done yesterday and the day before, and every day this week. He'd clearly meant nothing by it at all, and yet his words had set her mind racing. It seemed that if she had imagined she would wake up this morning and find the events of yesterday afternoon forgotten and everything back to comfortable normality, she was very much wrong.

Thank heaven he was going home tomorrow. She never thought she'd be glad to see him leave, but she would breathe a huge sigh of relief the moment he was on that train. She needed time to think, and suddenly something as normal as just _thinking_ seemed to be impossible around him.

Ron was frowning at her. "You alright? You seem a bit... _distracted_..."

"I'm fine," she replied, a little too quickly. "Just tired. I didn't sleep very well last night, that's all."

That was an understatement. She'd hardly slept a wink, her head full of all these dangerous and confusing new thoughts and feelings.

"Probably the heat," said Ron.

She heard herself laugh out loud, for no reason at all. "Yes, probably."

He sipped his tea and she mentally shook herself. _"_So, listen, I thought -"

"So, what's the plan for today?"

They had started speaking at the same time, then stopped, and laughed awkwardly. She heard herself give that strange laugh again, an odd high-pitched sound that she'd never heard come from her own mouth before. Almost... a _giggle?_

Ron gestured for her to speak. "Sorry, you go."

"Yes, so... um... I... we... Mum was going to do our weekly food shop at the big supermarket this morning and she thought you might like to come. I don't suppose you've been to a supermarket before."

Ron shook his head. "There's a tiny one in the village, but I've never been to one of the really big ones. Does it sell tellyvisions and clothes and stuff as well as food?"

"Yes, it sells everything. I thought perhaps you could get your presents there. You know, for your Mum and Dad and... everyone..."

Yes, obviously, he _knows_ who he needs to get presents for, Hermione. What _has_ got into you?

"Yeah, that'd be cool. Could I get presents for everyone, though? I've only got about seven pounds left of that money Dad gave me, and I don't really know what that is in normal money."

"He probably didn't expect you to buy presents for your entire family with it, you know."

Ron frowned. "Yeah, I _know_," he said, stiffly, "But I _want_ to, so..."

"That's fine," she said, hastily, "I'm sure we'll be able to find something suitable. Perhaps some Muggle food they can all try rather than individual presents?"

Ron considered for a moment, and then nodded. "That might work."

He blew on his tea again and she stared at his mouth, transfixed. She _had_ to get out of here. _Now._

"Alright," she said, hastily, dragging her gaze away from Ron's mouth, "I'll leave you to finish your tea, then, shall I? If you just come down to the kitchen whenever you're ready, we can have some cornflakes or toast or something, and then head off in about half an hour. Or did you want to have a sh-shower first?"

Oh, _God_. Ron in the _shower!_

"Nah, I'm fine. I'll finish this and get dressed -"

_Get dressed!_

"- and see you downstairs in a bit, then, shall I?"

"Mm. Yes. Yes, in a bit. You just... get dressed...Yes. Ok. Ha ha!"

She had truly lost her mind.

---

---

Before his arrival, she had worried that maybe it would be weird being alone with just Ron for a whole week without Harry there too, that maybe they would run out of things to talk about after a few days, but it wasn't weird at all. And running out of things to talk about was _certainly_ never an issue. They were both talkers, that was for sure. It was just about the only thing they _did _have in common.

---

She had desperately wanted him to have a good time this week, wanted her parents to like him, wanted _him_ to like _them_, wanted everything to be _perfect_. She'd even planned a programme of events, so they could see and do as many things as possible in the time available.

---

On Saturday night they'd gone out with her parents to a local Italian restaurant they often frequented, where it became quickly apparent that Ron had never been to a restaurant before. He had studied the menu as though it were a particularly difficult exam paper, whispering constant, urgent questions to her about all the strange new dishes on offer. ("What's tagliatelle? What's pesto? Would I like it? What's tiramisu?")

And the look on his face when the waiter had offered him the little bowl of parmesan! Utter panic! She had wanted to laugh, but resisted because he looked so terrified.

---

He'd also been reluctantly persuaded to have his first ever coffee, which he'd taken the tiniest sip from, made a face, and then pushed the cup away from him in disgust ("That's the most revolting thing I've ever drunk in my life." "Ron, you barely even tasted it." "Yeah, and I had to put about eight sugars in it just to manage that." "Oh, for God's sake!")

---

The next day, they'd gone out for Sunday lunch at a pub followed by a nice walk in the country. Ron was in his element, of course. It was a simple equation. Countryside + roast chicken dinner + rhubarb crumble and custard = happy Ron. He'd spent less than an hour in London the day before, but even that was too much for him. It hadn't helped that his train journey from King's Cross to Cambridge had been somewhat ruined by the idiot in the seat behind him shouting into his mobile phone for the entire forty-five minutes. ("Have _you_ got a mobile phone, then?" "Of course not, only idiots and show-offs have mobile phones. Anyway, I'm fourteen, why would I need one?")

---

On Monday, her parents had both gone back to work, leaving them alone in the house for the day. Hermione had shown him all the Muggle technology they had, tried her best to explain how it all worked, but finally had to admit she didn't really know, much to Ron's delight. ("But I thought you knew _everything_…" "Oh, shut up!") She'd also showed him their old family albums, with all the photos of her as a child, which he'd found hilarious once he'd got over the oddity of the people in the pictures not moving. ("What are you wearing?" "They're called legwarmers." "And what's _that?" _"It's a ra-ra skirt." "A _what?" _"Never mind.")

---

On Tuesday, they had gone into town for the day on the bus. She had taken him around the shops, and they'd had lunch at a nice little café by the river. She'd wanted to show him as much of the Muggle world she inhabited as possible ("We could go to the cinema. Or bowling…") but to her surprise, it had been Ron who had seemed keen to leave ("Or we _could_ just go back to yours… I mean, I don't _mind_…"). They'd ended up getting home at only half past four, before her parents were even home from work, and spent the rest of the evening just talking in her room.

---

And that was another thing; that evening they'd been sitting on her bed - _not doing anything! _- and it had suddenly struck her that she had a _boy_ in her _room_. Sitting on her _bed! _With the door closed! And of _course _there was nothing going on, it was only Ron, after all, and they were only playing Rummikub, but still... it was an odd feeling. She wasn't sure she was ready for all _that_ to start yet. Her parents obviously weren't remotely worried, didn't see Ron in that way either, and trusted both of them implicitly. For some reason this made her feel annoyed. Why was it so unthinkable to them that she might have a boyfriend? That a _boy _might be interested in _her? _Was she_ that _predictable? That much of a goody two-shoes? That _boring? _

---

On Wednesday, her Dad had taken the day off and driven them out into the nearby countryside to see some local attractions. The stately home they visited had clearly bored Ron rigid, but the driving he enjoyed immensely. Of course, it helped that he was in the passenger seat (more room for his long legs) and had a better view. Her dad had enquired if it was the first time Ron had ever been in a car, and both of them had laughed so much at that, she'd got a stitch. It was the bemused expression on her dad's face, and the sheer impossibility of explaining what was so funny. ("Actually, Dad, Ron stole a car when he was twelve and drove it all the way to Scotland. Did I never mention that?")

---

On Thursday, they'd had the morning to themselves again, and had just sat around the house talking for ages before they even realised it was lunchtime. Her Mum had come home at one and made them some lunch, which they'd eaten in the garden under the shade of the apple tree, and _then_... Maybe it was the heat, or the heady scent of honeysuckle in the air, or maybe it had been coming on for some time and spending all this time alone with him had made her finally realise it.

"What's tara – tarama –"

"Taramasalata. It's Greek. Made from cod roe."

"Why's it pink?"

"Oh. I don't know. It just is."

"What's goo-acka-mo-ley?"

She bit back a smile. "It's Mexican, I think. Made from avocadoes. That's why it's green."

He shook his head in wonder. "You really _do_ know everything, don't you?"

"Well, I've been coming to these places all my life, so I'm just used to seeing these things, that's all."

"And what are they?"

She considered. "Well… they're dips."

_"Dips?"_

"Dips. You dip things in them. You know, at parties."

Ron was looking more confused than ever. "What sort of things?"

"Well, bread, mainly. And carrot sticks, of course, and celery, and -"

"Whoa!"

They had arrived at the cheese aisle.

He turned to look at her, open-mouthed. "These are _all _different types of cheese?"

She nodded. "You must have had different kinds of cheese before, surely?"

He shrugged. "Maybe. Mum always just calls it cheese. I didn't know they had different _names_ for it. I mean, cheese is cheese, isn't it?"

---

Trailing around the supermarket after him gave her a good opportunity to watch Ron without him knowing. Was it just her imagination playing tricks, or did he somehow look _taller_ than the last time they'd seen each other? Of course not, that was ridiculous. It was barely two weeks ago, how could he _possibly_ be taller? It was physically impossible! And yet...

---

Perhaps it was just seeing him here, away from school and out of context, but he did seem taller, ganglier, more angular... his hair looked brighter, his eyes bluer, the freckles on his face and arms more numerous than she'd ever noticed before. Of course it _was _possible, since it had been a hot summer, that he had more freckles, but it was more likely that she was just paying rather more attention. Yesterday in the garden she'd tried to count them while he was dozing, but had to give up when he'd moved his arm to dislodge a ladybird that had landed there.

---

Perhaps he just looked taller here because Hogwarts had such high ceilings compared to her parents' Victorian town house. And because they weren't surrounded by a lot of burly six foot sixth-formers that made Ron look positively short by comparison. Yes, that was probably it. She breathed a sigh of relief. There was a rational explanation for everything.

---

"What are those?"

"What? Oh, they're grapes. They have black ones as well as white ones. Although I suppose they're really _red _rather than bla-"

"Not _those!" _he snapped back, firing up, _"_I know what _grapes _are, I'm not stupid!"

She coloured. "I didn't say you -"

"_Those! _Up _there!"_

"Oh. They're lychees. They're a Chinese fruit."

"What do they taste like?"

"Actually, they have rather a strange taste… almost perfumed. And they have a very odd texture as well. A bit like eyeballs."

Ron looked suitably horrified. _"Eyeballs?"_

She laughed. "I know! I tried them once, but I don't really like them."

"Funny that," said Ron, dryly.

"Do you want to try one? I could put a couple in Mum's trolley for you."

Ron shook his head. "You're not really selling them, to be honest."

"You could take them home and freak out the twins," she suggested, mischievously.

A slow smile spread across Ron's face. _"Hmm..."_

---

_No_, she decided, it wasn't because she fancied him. It was merely a natural curiosity because she was growing up and he was growing up, and he was the nearest boy to her, that was all. It was nothing to do with Ron himself. It was just biological instinct. Hormones. _Science. _There was probably a chapter about it in one of the biology books in her Mum's office. She would look it up when Ron had gone home. Although there was really no need. She was quite confident that this was the answer. It was the only one that made sense. It would have been just the same if it were Harry staying with her and not Ron.

---

Well, no. It wouldn't have been, would it? Because she hadn't _asked_ Harry to come and stay, she had only asked Ron. Somewhere deep inside she knew that she would never have had those kinds of feelings for Harry. Not that he was unattractive (and even thinking of Harry in terms of whether he was attractive or not seemed wrong to her), but theirs just wasn't that kind of relationship. He was just her very good friend, and Ron was...

---

What _was_ Ron? He was her very good friend, too, of course. And before yesterday if someone had asked her to choose which of them was her _best_ friend, she would not have been able to. No, that wasn't true either. There was just something about the relationship she had with Ron which was intrinsically different from the relationship she had with Harry.

---

Maybe it was just because he was from such a different background to her. Maybe it was just because he was a wizard. Maybe her interest was purely an extension of her thirst for knowledge in all things. Ron was interesting because he was _different_, that was all.

---

And yet, it couldn't be _just_ that, could it? Yes, he was different, but he was also just a normal fourteen year old boy, who swore too much and slouched and sulked and laughed at stupid things, and sometimes acted like a toddler who had eaten too much sugar.

---

Except Harry was all those things too, so what was it about Ron? She and Harry were rather alike in some ways, perhaps more obvious a match. Both only children, prone to insularity. People who didn't know them and looked at their friendship from the outside probably thought that Harry was the pivot and the other two revolved in his orbit, but actually, now that she thought about it, she realised that wasn't the case at all. Those few weeks when Harry had made up with her but Ron was still not talking to her over the Scabbers incident had been awful. Quite a lot of the time she and Harry had sat there in silence with nothing to say to each other, both caught up in their own worries. Hermione fretting about their upcoming exams and other, more _personal_ issues (things that she certainly wasn't going to talk to a _boy_ about), and Harry no doubt tying himself in the usual internal knots over all the unique problems _he_ had to deal with. Without Ron there to lighten the mood, the world of school could sometimes seem like a very difficult and lonely place for both of them.

---

And although she'd complained voraciously about him distracting her, she did appreciate Ron's efforts to pull her away from her revision this year. She had taken on far too much, and it was a hard thing to admit. She wasn't perfect. She wasn't infallible. Maybe she did need to take a break now and then, not try to take everything on her shoulders (something Harry ought to learn too). Her friends were more important than study. Well, _just_ as important anyway. She needed them - _both_ of them - more than they knew.

---

It had been a difficult year all round, really. She had, as her Mum had so embarrassingly put it, "become a woman". She had done things that she would never have imagined herself doing in a million years. She had answered back to a teacher! She had stormed out of a lesson! She had _hit_ a _boy! _Alright, it was only Draco Malfoy, and he had thoroughly deserved it, not to mention that the stunned expressions on Ron and Harry's faces afterwards had been completely worth it, but _still_…

---

And then yesterday, she had thought about kissing her best friend.

---

"Hey, they've got flaffle!"

"They've got _what?"_

"Flaffle!" he exclaimed, excited to recognise something at last, "We had it when we were in Egypt!"

She followed his gaze to where he was pointing and realisation finally dawned. "Oh! _Falafel!"_

Ron laughed. "Yeah, but we always just called it flaffle. We ate a lot of it because it was cheap and Mum said you couldn't trust the meat."

"So you were mostly vegetarian for the week? That must have been a bit of a shock."

Ron grinned. "Yeah, it was a bit. It was nice to try new food, though. Mum mostly makes pies. But I'll eat anything, as you know."

"Except coffee."

"Yeah, well, you've got to draw the line somewhere." He sighed. "I can't believe that was a whole year ago."

"I know. A lot's happened this year."

"Yeah," he said, simply. "It has."

They were both silent for a few moments, neither wanting to bring up the painful subject of the Crookshanks-eating-Scabbers debacle that had very nearly destroyed their friendship.

"Oh!" exclaimed Hermione suddenly, "I was meaning to ask about your new owl! How's he getting on?"

"Yeah, alright, thanks," said Ron, looking rather relieved, "I've been keeping him in my room, in Scabbers' old cage, but I'm not sure he likes it. It's not really meant for an owl, but he _is_ really small, so…"

"Have you given him a name yet?"

Ron made a face, and she laughed. "What was _that_ for?"

"_I_ haven't given him a name, no. _Ginny _has, though."

"Dare I ask?"

Ron shook his head in disgust. "Pig. It's short for Pigwidgeon."

She exploded into laughter and Ron laughed at her laughing. _"Pigwidgeon?" _she repeated.

He shrugged. "Hey, don't look at me. _I_ didn't give him the bloody name!"

"Had you done something to annoy her, or…?"

"Maybe I had," he grinned, "Maybe that's why she decided to give him the _stupidest name in the history of the world_."

"What did _you_ want to call him?"

He shrugged. "I hadn't really got round to it, to be honest."

"You've had him two weeks, Ron. How long does it take to think of a name? The poor bird must have had a terrible identity crisis!"

"Well, I've never had to name anything before, have I? Scabbers was Percy's before he was mine, remember? That was a stupid name as well. Anyway, it doesn't matter now, does it? Bloody name's stuck."

"I think it rather suits him, actually."

"Yeah," said Ron, dryly, "But you're _mental, _so…"

"_I'm_ mental? _I _didn't let my little sister name my new pet!"

Ron laughed, and she coloured with pleasure, as she often did when she had inadvertently made a joke. He had a nice laugh, she thought. She'd never really noticed it before.

---

She was noticing a lot of new things about Ron this week. Basic things like the fact that he'd clearly never been taught to look left and right before crossing the road. That the money confused the hell out of him. That _fashion_ was an entirely alien concept to a wizard. That he genuinely didn't understand why there were so many bloody _shops. _That everything she considered normal and boring and just sort of _there, _all those things she took for granted, he made her see through new eyes. Why _was_ taramasalata pink? And more to the point, why had she never wondered that _before? _

---

She noticed other things about him, too. The way he would suddenly go unusually quiet when he felt out of his depth, as though he was afraid to open his mouth lest he give himself away. Like when they had first arrived at her parents' house in her Mum's car and he had seen her house for the first time. He'd gone quiet, too, upon meeting her dad, although they'd met briefly already, about two years earlier. He had become oddly formal, sticking out his hand for her dad to shake and mumbling, "Very pleased to meet you, Mr Granger".

---

In town and in the restaurant - in almost every situation, in fact, where they had come into contact with Muggles - his body language had been tense and his expression anxious. He just sort of stood there, looking awkward and gangly as usual, waiting for her to tell him where to go and what to do. A fish out of water. He'd been doing it all week, looking to her to explain everything, and for reassurance that he wasn't doing things wrong.

---

He had only really relaxed and become himself again when they were back at her house and it was just the two of them, in her bedroom, talking, or in the kitchen, drinking tea. She liked that. It made her feel needed.

---

Maybe that was it, maybe it was just a protective thing, a sisterly - well, no, there was nothing sisterly about what she had felt for him yesterday afternoon. Nothing at all.

---

"Fuck me, are these _all _biscuits?"

She didn't quite know whether to scold him for the dreadful swearing or laugh at his obvious astonishment.

"Yes, Ron, they're all biscuits."

Ron cocked his head on one side to read some of the labels. "Fig rolls, pink wafers, ginger nuts, jammy dodgers, gypsy creams, _Jaffa Cakes..._"

He whispered the words as though they were a spell or an incantation. "Why are they in the biscuit aisle if they're cakes?"

Hermione laughed. "Well, it's sort of complicated, actually. I mean, they're obviously _cakes_, because they have a sponge base, but then you buy them in a packet, like biscuits. I think the company actually went to the European court to have them officially declared as biscuits. You have to a pay a tax on cakes, you see, because they're considered a luxury, but not on biscuits, because they're considered an essential - _what?"_

Ron shook his head. "You're actually kind of scary sometimes, you know that?"

"Oh, shut up. You asked."

"Would _I _like them?"

"Well… let's consider… they have _chocolate_ on them… hmm… difficult question…"

Ron chuckled, and turned back to the shelf, picking up a packet of Jaffa Cakes and turning it over and over in his hands with a kind of awestruck longing. Finally, to Hermione's immense surprise, he put them back on the shelf and started to walk away.

"Aren't you going to buy them?" she asked, hurrying to catch him up.

"Can't. Spent all my money."

"Well, let _me_ buy them, then. They're only 80p."

_"No," _he said, firmly.

"Oh, don't be ridiculous, they're _80p! _It's _nothing!"_

"I don't want them."

"We can share them if it bothers you that much."

"It doesn't _bother_ me. I just don't _want _them, that's all."

"Ron –"

"Can we go and have a look at the jams?"

---

That was another of the many things she had realised about Ron this week. How much of a touchy subject money was for him. She knew his family weren't exactly rich, of course, but spending so much time with him these last few days had really hammered it home. In town on Tuesday, they'd gone to a café for tea and jacket potatoes, and Ron had insisted on paying for both their meals. Her protests and his stubborn insistence had almost led to a full-blown argument, and it had been a good half hour before the tension between them had eased. His dad had given him a twenty pound note to cover expenses and spending money for the week, but nine pounds of it had gone just like that. The look of shock on his face when he had been handed his meagre handful of change had made her feel horribly guilty.

---

In the restaurant she'd noticed that he'd ordered the cheapest things on the menu, despite her parents' insistence that he could have anything he wanted. In town he had trailed around after her in the shops looking bored. She had thought he would be interested and was slightly hurt that he wasn't more enthusiastic, but when she brought it up, he simply shrugged and said, "What's the point? I can't _buy_ anything." She had tried to explain that _was _the point: they were just window shopping. It was supposed to be _fun_. Ron had looked at her as though she were insane. Shopping? _Fun? _Madness!

---

Mind you, he seemed to be enjoying the supermarket well enough. He'd been staring at the foreign foods section for a good ten minutes, apparently mesmerised by the amazing variety of goods on display from all corners of the world.

"Ron?"

"Mm?"

"What are you looking at?"

"Errr… naan bread."

"Do you know what it is?"

Ron raised his eyebrows at her and said, very dryly, "Is it _bread?"_

She slapped his arm. "Well, yes, obviously it's _bread_. I just meant; do you know what sort of bread it is? Where it comes from?"

"It's Indian."

She was unable to hide her surprise, and Ron looked half-resigned, half-amused. "I do know _some _things, you know. Not just about Quidditch."

"I know you do!" she retorted, offended.

Ron made a sceptical noise in his throat.

"I _do!"_

He returned his gaze to the shelves once more. "So, what's the difference between a plain naan and a Peshwari naan?"

"Well, Peshawar is a region in India. There are several different types of naan bread, but a Peshwari naan has sultanas and coconut in it. You'd like it, actually. It's very sweet. Have you ever had an Indian takeaway?"

He shook his head. "There's one over near Ottery St. Mary, but we've never been."

"I'll mention it to Mum, maybe we could have one tonight. We don't usually eat takeaways because they're not very good for you, but it _is_ a special occasion."

"Is it?" he asked blankly, "Why? What's happening?"

She laughed. "It's your last night, silly!"

He coloured. "Oh, yeah."

There was a short silence while Ron surveyed the curry sauces and rubbed his arm distractedly, and Hermione surveyed _him_.

"Your arms are really freckly," she murmured, before she could stop herself.

Ron looked rather startled. "What?"

They stared at each other. She could feel her face heat up again. Why had she _said_ that? She gestured vaguely in his direction, embarrassed. "Arms..." she mumbled, "... freckly..."

"Oh." He looked down at his arms in vague surprise, as though it was the first time he'd noticed them. "Yeah. Sorry."

She gaped at him incredulously. "_Sorry? _Sorry for _what?"_

He shrugged. "Dunno. Default response, I suppose. Get your apology in first."

"It's your fault you've got freckles?"

"No, that one you can blame on my mum and dad. Two red-haired people shouldn't be allowed to have kids together. We never stood a chance."

He smiled uncertainly, and she frowned back at him until his smile wavered.

"There's nothing wrong with freckles," she scolded.

"No, I know. I'm joking. It's a _joke. _What's pillow rice?"

It took her a couple of seconds to realise what he was talking about, and then she burst out laughing. "_Pilau_ rice! Not _pillow! _You don't _sleep _on it!"

"Well, how am I supposed to know how it's _pronounced?" _he retorted, going red. "I've never bloody heard of it before, have I?"

"I know you haven't. I'm not laughing at _you_. It's just the idea of _pillow_ rice, that's all. It's funny!"

"Whatever," muttered Ron, grumpily.

Hermione frowned. He'd been like this all week, one minute bombarding her with eager questions, and the next, getting all defensive over his lack of knowledge of the Muggle world. She wanted to tell him, "It's not your fault you don't know how to use a toaster or what tagliatelle is or how to pronounce taramasalata. It doesn't mean you're stupid."

She knew she wouldn't, of course. They'd nearly had one argument this week already, and she didn't want to risk another, especially as he was going home tomorrow.

"No-one's laughing at you," she said, softly.

Ron gave a disbelieving snort. "Yeah, just those Muggle girls in the record shop, right?"

--

They had been in a shop in town a few days ago, and a couple of girls had giggled at him. Ron had turned to her and asked, helplessly, "Have I spilled something down myself? Is it the clothes? I mean, can they _tell?"_

---

He didn't need to finish the sentence, of course. Could they tell... that he was a wizard? That he wasn't like them? And maybe it was just because she _knew_, but although there wasn't anything _obviously_ different about him, nothing that made him stand out from the hundreds of other teenage boys hanging around the town centre, in their sportswear or Nirvana t-shirts, at the same time there _was_ something different about him, something intangible. A certain unworldliness, maybe.

---

She didn't tell him - he had probably guessed as much anyway - but as far as those girls were concerned, it probably _was _the clothes. The once-white non-branded trainers that looked like they had been through several wars. The trousers that were about an inch too short for his lanky frame, and revealed rather too much mismatching sock. It wasn't just that, though. It was the incredible awkwardness that emanated from every pore. Fourteen was an awkward age, of course, but Ron took it to new levels. It was partly because he was so far out of his comfort zone in the Muggle world, and partly - well, just _Ron_.

---

She had noticed in town, him glancing in obvious interest at some of the Muggle girls they passed. Mostly, she remembered, wryly, the ones wearing the least clothing. Still, she could hardly blame him for that. He had grown up in the wizarding world and wasn't used to seeing girls showing off their legs in short skirts or their bare midriffs in little crop tops. It was natural curiosity, that was all. She didn't think he was quite mature enough yet to actually be interested in them in _that _way. He was fourteen going on eleven, like most boys of his age.

---

And even when he _did_ get around to being interested in girls, she just wasn't the kind of girl boys liked. She wasn't pretty. She wasn't fanciable. She wasn't, heaven forbid, _Lavender._ She was plain, boring, bookish, flat-chested, practically invisible Hermione Granger with the mad frizzy hair, and if she said or did anything at all to express her feelings, he would be horrified. He would run a mile. He might even _laugh_. And anyway, she didn't even _want_ him to fancy her, so it didn't really matter, did it?

---

"Right, so I've got pesto, spaghetti, those weird-looking sausages –"

"Chorizo," Hermione corrected automatically.

"Norfolk mustard, lychees, pickled onion Monster Munch, and seven Kinder Eggs."

"All the major food groups," she said, trying to suppress a smile.

"So you eat the pesto with the spaghetti...?"

She nodded. "Yes, and you might want to add some cheese as well. I'll write it all down for you when we get home."

"And the sausages you can put in a casserole?"

"Yes, although I wouldn't mix any of the other ingredients if I were you. Any meal that includes lychees and pickled onion Monster Munch is probably going to be your last."

Ron shook his head solemnly. "Ah, but you forget, I've been brought up on Bertie Bott's Every Flavour Beans; I can eat _anything!"_

"I don't doubt it."

They both laughed.

---

It was when they were walking around the town centre together on Tuesday afternoon that it had occurred to her that people might assume they were - well, a _couple_. For some reason the idea of this had been mortifying. What if she bumped into someone she knew from her old school? What would they think? But then she had started to play out the scenario in her head, imagining their stunned reaction with glee. Boring, frizzy-haired swot Hermione Granger with a _boyfriend! _Ha! That would show them!

---

Except he _wasn't _her boyfriend, and nor did she want him to be. _Did_ she? No, of course not! That would be ridiculous! He was just her friend, and that was the way things should stay. Even if he _were _interested in her in that way - _which he wasn't _- it would be a disaster. A total car crash. They had nothing in common. They were too different. It would ruin their friendship.

---

And that was the one thing she couldn't risk. She'd had a taste of what it would be like without Ron as her friend this year, and she didn't want to go through something like that ever again. It had been a long and lonely few months, especially when Harry wasn't talking to her either, and a stark reminder of how easy it would be to lose everything. It had frightened her, if she was honest. She thought she had changed, but it seemed she hadn't at all. She had instantly reverted to being that girl she used to be before she met Ron and Harry. The girl no-one wanted to be friends with, spending all her break times alone in the library with only her books for company. She didn't want to be that Hermione anymore.

---

Yes, it really was the only thing to do. She would say nothing, _do_ nothing, and by the time they went back to school in September, her little 'crush' on Ron would be nothing but a distant memory. She would look back and laugh at herself and thank heaven she had not pursued it. Ron would remain oblivious to her little... episode. Everything would go back to normal again, and these… _feelings_ she had would all just... go away.

And if they didn't… well, she would just _bury_ them, that was all.

It was for the best.

---

* * *

_Endnote:_

_Yeah, good luck with that, Hermione._

_New readers who have not yet read my other stories can read more about the week Ron spent at Hermione's house in my companion fics "The For And Against List" (from Hermione's point of view) and "Six Foot Of Ginger Idiot" (from Ron's). _

_(Leave a review for this one first, though!)_

_By the way, Hermione is (gasp!) incorrect about Jaffa Cakes. Biscuits and cakes are both exempt from tax, but chocolate-covered biscuits, for some reason, are not. She's smart, but I didn't think it was very likely that she'd know the ins and outs of a court case about biscuits. _

_And yes, I do know that Peshawar is in Pakistan, before anyone writes in. Whatever Ron might think, Hermione is a fourteen year old girl: she doesn't actually know everything (yet!)_

_Pb x_


	7. Chapter 7: Ball

_Author's Note__:_

_We're into fourth year now, so things are about to get… interesting..._

_I thoroughly enjoyed writing this chapter, so I hope you enjoy reading it just as much!_

_PB x_

* * *

**Chapter Seven: Ball**

They were sitting at the Gryffindor table in the Great Hall, which was sporadically dotted with small groups of students. They had finished dinner nearly an hour ago, but people were still milling about, seizing the chance to mix with the exchange students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang. Ever since they had arrived three months ago, these informal gatherings had been taking place most evenings. Instead of disappearing off to their respective common rooms as soon as dinner was finished, students from all four houses would stay in the Great Hall, talking about the Tri-Wizard tournament, sometimes even doing homework there, and making new friends.

Hermione was attempting to read a large textbook for a lesson the next day. Ron, who was sitting backwards on the bench with his elbows resting on the table and his legs stretched out in front of him, was watching Fleur Delacour and her friends laughing about something over by the door.

"Do you think Harry's really got a chance of winning this thing?" he asked Hermione, without taking his eyes off of Fleur.

"Of course he has," she said, briskly, although the truth was it seemed unlikely. He was a good three years younger than the other competitors, after all.

"Yeah, but he's competing against _Viktor Krum_. He's the best Seeker in the _world_. I know Harry's _good_, but…"

He tailed off. Fleur was now gliding along the Ravenclaw table next to theirs, carrying a large tray piled high with something he couldn't quite see.

"Cedric's pretty good as well. And, um..." - he tried to sound casual but failed - "That Fleur girl's not bad, either."

"And doesn't she know it," muttered Hermione.

"I would have thought you'd be _pleased_ a girl was one of the Champions."

_"Yes," _said Hermione, annoyed that she couldn't argue against that one, "And I _would_ be, if she wasn't so full of herself all the time. I mean, the way she swans around the castle looking down on everybody, you'd think she was the Queen of Sheba or something."

"Who?" said Ron, distractedly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. _"Fleur!"_

"I don't know what your problem is. She's really smart, you know. She wouldn't be a Tri-Wizard Champion if she wasn't."

"Oh, of _course_ she is," said Hermione, sarcastically, "And I'm sure that's _exactly_ the reason all the boys turn into _quivering idiots _every time she walks past! Because everyone knows the ability to do _long division _is the number one quality men look for in a woman! Honestly, why can't you just _admit_ -"

"Oh, my _God!"_ he hissed, swinging his legs back over the bench hurriedly and ducking down so Fleur didn't catch him staring at her, "_She's coming over!"_

"Who?"

_"Don't look!"_

"Bonjour!" said Fleur, smiling at both of them. "You are 'Arry's friends, yes?"

Ron, who appeared not to have heard the question, merely gaped at Fleur in slack-jawed awe. Hermione kicked him under the table.

"Yes, that's right," she said, stiffly.

"I have had zhese sent from 'ome. Would you like one?"

"What are they?" Ron whispered, his voice cracking on the last word.

"I think you'll find they're _biscuits_, Ron," said Hermione, sarcastically.

"Zey are Galettes Bretonnes," Fleur told them, "Biscuits from France."

"Thank you," whispered Ron, taking one very carefully as though he'd been offered the moon on a plate. "Merci, I mean."

"Zat is quite alright," said Fleur, "You are welcome."

She held the tray out to Hermione, who shook her head.

"No, thank you," she said, haughtily, "I've had them before and I don't really like them."

Fleur didn't waver. She simply turned her dazzling smile on Ron again, before tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder and moving on down the table to bestow her benevolence on a couple of stunned fifth year boys.

"_Pfft!"_ exploded Hermione, the second Fleur was out of earshot.

Ron turned to stare at her, eyes narrowed in disapproval.

"_What?"_ she snapped.

"Why did you say no? I could have had yours if you didn't want it!"

"You've already got one!"

"Yeah, but I could have had yours as well!"

"Ron, you had _two puddings!"_

"That was hours ago!"

"It was _one_ hour ago!"

"It was a _free biscuit!"_

"Oh, for God's _sake_, Ron, it's just a _biscuit!"_

"It's a _foreign_ biscuit," he told her, as though this explained everything, and waved it in front of her nose. "_Look!" _

"I've already seen it, thank you," she said, crisply, pushing his arm away. "I have _been_ to France, you know."

"Well, _I _haven't," he muttered, looking disgruntled.

"Didn't they have" – she made ironic air speech marks around the word – "_foreign_ biscuits in Egypt?"

Ron shrugged. "Dunno. We didn't really go to any shops. All the money went on the holiday." His face suddenly flushed crimson, as though he'd said too much, and he looked away quickly, down at the biscuit in his hand. "These are nice, though."

There was a high, tinkling laugh nearby and his gaze drifted back to the blonde girl who was now tossing her hair for the benefit of a small crowd of adoring Hufflepuff boys.

Hermione pursed her lips. "You know what your trouble is, _Ronald?"_

"Mm?" he said, distractedly, still gazing after Fleur.

"You're far too easily impressed," she said, scathingly.

He dragged his gaze back to her again and leaned back in his seat, frowning. "I'm not _impressed_. It's only a biscuit. I'm just… they're interesting, that's all."

There was a long silence, broken only by the incredibly irritating sound of Ron slowly crunching his biscuit to make it last as long as possible. She could feel him watching her, and tried hard to concentrate on the page in front of her.

_I will not look up. I will not look up. I will -_

"Have you _really_ got a date to the ball?" he suddenly asked, apropos nothing.

She sighed, deeply, and rolled her eyes. "We've been _through_ all this..."

"And it's definitely not Neville?"

"No, it's not Neville. Although if he _had_ asked me before" – she caught herself just in time – "_this other person_ – I would have said yes."

"You fancy _Neville?" _he asked, looking as though he couldn't decide whether to be horrified or burst out laughing.

She gave him a withering look. "I'm not having this conversation with you again, Ron."

He shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. "Fine. Whatever. I don't care, anyway."

There was a long silence. Ron's leg was jiggling up and down restlessly and she felt a strong urge to reach out a hand and press it down on his knee to make it stop.

"You fancy Neville," said Ron, in a mocking, sing-songy voice.

"I do not!"

"Yes, you do. You _lurve_ him. Ha ha!"

Hermione bit her lip in annoyance. "Remind me: are you _four _or fourteen?"

Ron's laugh died in his throat, and he glared at her, annoyed. The incessant leg-jiggling started up again in earnest. For several minutes neither of them spoke.

"So, have _you_ got a date yet?" she asked finally, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on the book in front of her.

Ron shook his head. "No," he said, gloomily. "Maybe I'll just skip it and fake illness or something. Is there a vomiting spell I can use?"

She laughed, despite herself. "Yes, there is, but if you think I'm going to tell _you_, I'm afraid you're very sadly mistaken."

He gave a weak smile. "Maybe I'll go to the library and look it up myself."

"Are you sure you know where it is?" she asked, determinedly trying to keep a straight face.

"Ha ha," he said, but he was smiling too.

"So have you got any idea of who you might ask?" she asked, still keeping her gaze firmly on her book.

"Why?" he asked, eagerly, "Got any suggestions?"

She didn't respond at first, apparently considering her reply, and then she said, in an odd voice, "Have you finished your Potions essay for tomorrow yet?"

"'Course I have!"

"Well, don't sound so offended, you're usually still writing it five minutes before the lesson."

"Yeah, well... I _have_, so... _Well_... most of it. _Well_, I've started it, anyway. _Well_, I know what I'm gonna write."

"Ron," she scolded, "You are honestly the worst procrastinator I know."

He frowned. "I'm the worst _what_ you know?"

"You always put things off until the last minute," she explained.

"Oh, right. I knew that. I thought you said something else."

His gaze drifted back to Fleur Delacour, and Hermione watched him, irritated.

"Well, you'd better get a move on, hadn't you? Or you'll be going with Eloise Midgen after all."

"Mm," he said, patently not listening.

Hermione stabbed a small hole through her parchment with her quill in anger.

"She doesn't even know you exist, you know."

"Mm."

"Or maybe you could go with Neville yourself..."

"Mm. Yeah."

"You can't hear a single thing I'm saying, can you?"

Ron's head snapped back to her again. "I'm _listening!" _he retorted. "_What?"_

"Oh, forget it!"

For several minutes they were both too annoyed to speak, Ron sitting with his arms folded tightly across his chest and frowning up at the ceiling, Hermione pretending to read her book.

"Where's Harry, anyway?" she asked, eventually.

"He went to the Owlery to post a letter."

"I don't suppose he's asked anyone to the ball yet, either?"

Ron gave a noncommittal grunt.

"He fancies Cho, you know."

Ron looked up, startled. "Cho Chang who plays Seeker for Ravenclaw?"

"How many other _Cho_s do you know?"

He flushed. "He hasn't said anything to _me_."

"Oh, I wonder why _that_ is," retorted Hermione, sarcastically.

"He _told_ you this?" asked Ron, rather annoyed that Harry had thought to tell Hermione such an important piece of information and not him.

"No, of course not! It's just _obvious_, isn't it?"

"Is it?"

"_Yes!"_

"Well, it's the first I've heard of it," muttered Ron.

"Well, you must be _blind_, then."

"Whatever," said Ron, grumpily.

She glared at him, then forced herself to look down at the page again, although she hadn't read a single word for over 15 minutes.

"Do you think he'll ask her to the ball?"

"How the hell should _I _know?"

"_Alright! _I was only _asking! _You don't have to snap my head off!"

"Well, don't ask stupid questions, then!"

"What's up with _you?"_

He gave a derisory laugh. "_Me? _You're the one who's been in a bad mood all evening!"

"_Excuse _me? _I've_ been in a bad mood?"

"Yeah, you have! And you didn't have to be so rude to Fleur either. She was only being friendly."

"Oh, you're on first-name terms now, are you? _Please!_ There are nearly a hundred and fifty boys at this school, Ronald, and you know where _you_ are on her radar? Number a hundred and forty-seven!"

Ron flushed. "You're just jealous because she's –" He stopped abruptly, and bit his lip.

"She's _what?" _shouted Hermione, furiously, "She's _what_, exactly?"

"It doesn't matter," he mumbled. He had been going to say 'pretty' but stopped himself just in time. All the girls at Hogwarts seemed to have it in for Fleur Delacour, and her being pretty was the only reason he could see. Girls were weird like that.

"No, _come_ on! I'd like to know what it is that _she's _got I'm supposed to be so jealous of! Apart from _free biscuits_, of course!"

They stared at each other, both quite crimson in the face.

Ron's fingers automatically ventured towards his mouth, the way they often did when he was nervous.

"And don't bite your nails!" Hermione snapped.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mum."

She gritted her teeth. "And stop _saying_ that. You know I really _hate_ it when you say that."

"Well, stop _nagging _me, then!"

"I wasn't nagging you!"

"Oh, right, so what would you call it, then?"

They sank into angry silence once more, Ron now deliberately gnawing at his nails as loudly as possible just to annoy her. Hermione ignored him. She knew she should just take her books and go back to the common room to study, but somehow, when Ron was there, no matter how annoying he was being, it made it that much harder to leave.

"So, is it someone in our year?"

"Yes," said Hermione, "It's Seamus."

Ron almost fell off the bench in shock_. "What? _You're_ joking!"_

"Yes, Ron," Hermione said, acidly, "I'm joking. Seamus is going with Lavender. So you can stop asking me, because I'm not going to tell you. You'll just have to turn up on the night and find out for yourself, won't you?"

"Yeah, great," said Ron, sourly, "I can't wait. What a brilliant night it's going to be. I can't believe they cancelled Quidditch for this shit."

"So, you're not looking forward to it, then?" she deadpanned.

Ron glared at her. "You have _seen_ my dress robes, right? I might as well go in my fucking pyjamas, I'm going to be a total laughing stock anyway."

He shot a sideways glance at her, as if waiting for the inevitable telling-off for his swearing, but none was forthcoming.

"I still can't believe someone said yes to _Malfoy_. He must have bribed her or something." He buried his head in his hands and moaned softly into them. "God, if _Crabbe and Goyle _turn up with dates, I'm gonna kill myself."

"I don't think any girls are _that_ desperate," said Hermione, waspishly. "You should have asked someone earlier, shouldn't you? Not left it until the last minute like you do with everything else."

"Yeah, al_right!"_ Ron snapped. "You don't have to rub it in." He sighed, and rubbed his eyes, wearily. "Maybe I'll just... I dunno, accidentally break my leg or something... start a fight with that bloke in fifth year who looks like he's half-ogre... throw myself in the lake... chuck myself off the Astronomy tower..."

"Well, then you wouldn't get to see who my mysterious date is, would you?"

He narrowed his eyes at her. "Have you _really_ got a date for the ball, or are you just pulling my leg?"

"Yes, she really _has_ got a date," answered Ginny, who had come up behind them unnoticed while they were arguing, "And no, it's not Neville. Can I have a word?"

Ron gave an exaggerated sigh and started to get up from the table. "If you must."

"Not _you_," retorted Ginny. "Hermione, have you got a minute?"

Hermione was rather taken aback. "Oh. Yes. Yes, of course. What's it about?"

Ginny glanced warily at her brother. "Er… in private?"

Hermione got to her feet, packed up her things and followed her, and Ron stared after them, annoyed.

"Oh, that's _fine!"_ he called after them, "You go ahead! Don't mind me! I'm not even _here!"_

The girls disappeared, and Ron was left alone at the dinner table. He let himself slump forwards across the table and pressed his forehead to the wooden surface, letting out a low groan. Seamus was going with Lavender! When did _that_ happen? Still, at least Harry didn't have a date, either. That made him feel marginally better about the whole thing. He'd feel like a total muppet if he was the only boy in their year without a date for the ball. It was going to be bad enough turning up in his ancient, lace-edged, mothball-smelling dress robes as it was.

'_Dress' _being the operative word, because that's exactly what they looked like. An old woman's dress. They smelled like someone had died in them, too. Died in them, been buried in them for two hundred years, and dug up last week, specifically for the purpose of making him look like a total spanner in front of the entire school. Even if he _did_ manage to persuade a girl to come to the ball with him – and that was looking about as likely as the Cannons winning the Cup this year – she'd take one look at him in those bloody robes and run a mile.

And what was all this business about Harry fancying Cho Chang? It was the first _he'd_ heard of it! And then there was his little sister, suddenly best mates with Hermione all of a sudden and with some sort of secret he wasn't allowed to know about. Didn't anyone tell him anything anymore?

And who was the fuck was this mysterious 'date' of Hermione's, anyway? She had to be lying. It was the only explanation. No-one had asked her, and she'd made up some non-existent boy just to save the humiliation. It was stupid, really. He didn't have a date either, so if she was really stuck for someone to go with, she could always just have asked him, and they could have gone together. Problem solved!

Presumably she was now too embarrassed to admit she'd just made it up, so they'd both end up going on their own, and looking stupid _separately_. She'd have to think of some excuse as to why her date couldn't make it. Pretend he was ill or something. That would be okay, though, because then they could just go together after all, without the pressure of it being an actual _date_.

Except maybe Hermione would be upset because it would be really obvious that they were only going together because neither of them could manage to get proper dates on their own. Not that he minded particularly, but girls seemed to actually care about this sort of thing. He was just worried about looking like a tit in front of the entire school. She probably thought it meant she was ugly or something. And she wasn't, not at all.

He frowned. Maybe she really _did_ have a date. Who, though? He couldn't think of a single boy in the school Hermione even _talked_ to apart from himself and Harry. It _had_ to be Neville. He'd be really annoyed with her if it was, mainly because if she was just going to go with a _friend_, then she might as well go with _him_.

Whose stupid idea was it to have a _ball_, anyway? Some _girl's_, he'd bet. They were all just so _excited_ about the bloody thing, as though it was the most incredible thing that had ever happened to them. Even Hermione, who was usually quite sensible about these sort of things, seemed to have temporarily lost her mind and got caught up in the hysteria. He'd be glad when Christmas was over, that was for sure. Things couldn't get back to normal soon enough as far as he was concerned. Especially Hermione, who'd been acting weird for _weeks _now. He wasn't entirely sure what he'd done to piss her off, unless she was just upset about no-one inviting her to the ball and he was just the nearest person for her to take out her anger on.

He lifted his head from the table and sighed. Maybe he should just ask her, anyway. Tell her she'd be doing him a massive favour, _beg_ if he had to. Give her an escape route from having to make up a lie when her so-called 'date' didn't turn up on the night. It would be much easier all round, really. She might even be relieved. And at least he'd have someone to talk to. This bloody thing would be a lot more fun if he could just hide in a corner and talk to Hermione all night. Well, it would be a lot more fun if he drowned himself in the bath the night before and didn't go at all, but since he was probably going to be forced into it, Hermione was about the only girl in the entire school who he wouldn't rather kill himself than spend an evening in the company of.

Maybe he could ask one of Ginny's friends? Third years weren't allowed to go otherwise, so they might even be grateful for the chance. Yeah, that might work. Although, if he _did_ manage to persuade one of them to go with him, what was he going to say to them? What did girls talk about, anyway? (He didn't count Hermione, who wasn't really a girl, not like that, anyway) He supposed if he told them they weren't actually obliged to spend the entire evening standing anywhere near him, that might help. You only needed a date to get through the actual _door_, after all. And then they could go off and do... whatever it was girls did at these things, and he could spend the rest of the evening hiding in a darkened corner, ideally somewhere quite close to the buffet table.

Even better, maybe he could just hang around for about an hour and then sneak back upstairs to the dorm when everyone was busy dancing or whatever. _Fuck. _Was he going to be expected to _dance _as well? This was getting worse and worse! Faking illness was looking like a better idea by the second. If only he was on the Quidditch team, he could 'accidentally' fall off his broom fifty feet up in the air or something. Mind you, he'd broken his leg once already, it probably wasn't the best idea to break it again. Might end up walking with a limp for the rest of his life like Mad-Eye Moody. _Hah. _Yeah, 'cos that would _totally _impress the girls...

His gaze drifted across the Great Hall to the Slytherin table, where a crowd of girls including Pansy Parkinson were flocking around Viktor Krum, who at least had the grace to look rather embarrassed about the whole thing.

I bet _he _doesn't have any trouble getting dates, Ron thought gloomily. Look at him. He's so _cool_. Imagine what it must be like to fly out onto the pitch and hear thousands of people chanting your name. I'd _love_ that. Imagine what it must be like to _win _something. Yeah, like you're ever going to find out, Weasley.

He glanced over at Fleur again. Her Veela magic didn't affect him so badly at this distance, but she was still incredibly, stunningly beautiful, her pale blonde hair like a halo of light framing her perfect face. When he was near her, his head swum, his mind went wonderfully blank, and the blood roared in his ears, blocking out all sound. For those few moments he was utterly lost, reality melted away, and all he could see and hear was _her_. It was like a Memory charm. She'd walk on, the spell would break, and he'd blink and come back to life again, wondering what the hell had just happened and why Hermione was glaring at him.

Viktor and Fleur. No doubt they'd be going to the ball together. Of course they would, they were the perfect couple. So glamorous, so talented, so -

He looked down and realised that he'd accidentally dragged his sleeve in some spilt gravy. Oh, _brilliant_, he thought, bitterly. This is quite possibly going to be the worst night of my life.

* * *

"Why... did we... have to... come all the way... up here?" Hermione panted. "There are perfectly good toilets on the ground floor, and they aren't haunted by Moaning Myrtle."

"I didn't want to be overheard," said Ginny, closing the door very firmly behind them and pressing her back to it to make sure no-one could come in.

The two girls looked at each other.

"Well?" said Hermione, finally.

"Neville asked me to go to the ball with him."

"Oh." Hermione wasn't sure what she was supposed to say. Judging from Ginny's expression, congratulations did _not_ seem to be in order. "And what did you say?"

"Well, third years can't go otherwise, so..."

"So you said yes?"

Ginny nodded, but she looked close to tears.

"And I assume you haven't brought me all the way up here because you're worried about what Ron and the twins might think?"

Ginny shook her head. "Come on, it's _Neville_. He couldn't be less of a threat if he tried."

Hermione sighed. Neville had asked _her_ to the ball this morning too, but she had turned him down and suggested he ask Ginny instead. Not because she didn't like him (as a friend, obviously), but because she really _did_ already have a date. Neville had needed some convincing that this was the real reason. Apparently he, like Ron, didn't believe it was possible that a real boy might have actually asked her out. What was it he had said? Oh, yes: _"They don't make them like that at Hogwarts!" _Well, actually, _Ronald_, maybe if you stopped staring at that French bimbo long enough to notice, you might find that the girls at Hogwarts are _more_ than good enough for the likes of _you! _Too good, in fact!

"Do you know…" began Ginny, hesitantly, "Has Harry... has he _said_ anything? About the... I mean, does he have a _date_ yet?"

"Not as far as I know. Apparently both he and Ron have decided to leave it until five minutes before the ball in the hope that some gorgeous blonde Veela girl will turn up and ask _them_ out."

She hadn't meant to sound quite so bitter about it. Rubbing her eyes wearily, she told the other girl, "I think you made the right decision."

"Really?" Ginny sounded unsure.

"Really. Go with Neville, have a good time, and try not to think about Harry at all."

_Why was it so easy to give others advice and so hard to apply it to her own situation?_

"Ha!" exclaimed Ginny, "Easy for you to say!"

"Look, just remember what I told you in August –"

"Yeah, yeah, I _know_. Forget about Harry and just concentrate on being myself."

Hermione bit back a smile. "You don't have to _forget_ about him. Just... get on with your life. Boys are idiots, honestly. I won't say they're not worth you wasting your time mooning over, but they're all still mentally about eight years old. He won't see you until he's ready to see you."

"Wow," said Ginny, dryly, "Depressing thought."

They both laughed.

"And look, Neville's really nice, you know. You could have done a lot worse."

"I know. And at least I won't have to worry about him trying to touch my boob or something."

Hermione choked on a laugh. "Ginny!"

"What?" said Ginny, innocently. "I bet you've thought about it. I bet _Viktor_ has, too."

"Viktor's a gentleman," said Hermione, primly. "He wouldn't do something like that."

"He's _seventeen!_ He's an International Quidditch player! He's probably... you know... _done it_..."

Hermione put her hands over both her ears, but Ginny merely raised her voice to make herself heard, unfazed.

"He'll probably try and _kiss_ you!"

"I don't want to talk about it!"

"Don't you _want_ him to? It's _Viktor Krum_, Hermione! Every girl in the school would be _sick_ with jealousy! Ron would go out of his _mind!"_

Hermione pulled her hands away from her ears and stared at her. "What?"

"Oh, don't try and deny it, I'm not an idiot."

"I didn't say you were!"

"And I'm not blind, either."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."

"Oh, _come_ on! I saw the way you were looking at him when you stayed at our house in August."

Hermione paled. "I wasn't – I don't know what you –"

"It's alright. He doesn't know."

Hermione slumped back against the sink, horrified, and for once in her life, utterly speechless.

"I think you're _mental_, mind you," chortled Ginny, "I mean, my idiot brother? _Really?"_

Hermione shook her head. "Is it that obvious?" she asked, weakly.

"Only to me. Seriously, don't worry about it. Ron wouldn't notice if you danced up to him wearing a see-through nightie and 'I want to have your babies' painted on your forehead."

Hermione gaped at her, horrified. "Ginny!"

"What? Don't tell me you haven't thought about it."

"_No!_ I would _never_ – I wouldn't – I –"

Ginny laughed. "Hermione Granger lost for words twice in the space of a minute; that must be a record!"

"Anyway," said Hermione, pulling herself together with a massive effort, "It doesn't matter, does it? He doesn't think of me like that, so –"

Ginny gave a derisory laugh. "Come off it!" She put on a whiney, annoying voice. "'Who are you going to the ball with, Hermione? Who are you going to the ball with, Hermione? Who are you going to the ball with, Hermione? Who are you –'"

Hermione coloured. "Yes, I know, but that's just –"

"Just _what?"_

"It doesn't mean that he... he... _fancies_ me or anything. He just doesn't believe I've actually got a _real_ date, that's all."

"Oh, he fancies you," said Ginny, confidently, "He just doesn't know it yet, that's all."

Hermione's stomach gave a feeble lurch. "That's nonsense," she said, weakly. "Don't you think I'd know if –"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

Hermione stared at the other girl for a few moments, then buried her head in her hands, letting out a soft moan. "Oh, _Goddddd... _what are we _like?"_

Ginny chuckled. "I know! Fancying a pair of idiots who don't deserve us!"

"You're right there."

"I know I am."

They both laughed again, and Hermione suddenly realised what she'd been missing all these years. Ron and Harry were good friends, of course, but there were some things she was never going to able to talk to them about, things that only another _girl_ would understand. She was glad Ginny was her friend now, too, and not just Ron's silent little sister anymore. _Silent_, that was a joke! Away from Harry's paralysing presence, Ginny was just as garrulous as her brother was. Hermione felt for her. Harry was almost as bad as Ron when it came to that kind of thing. Well, no; _no-one _could be as bad as Ron.

Actually, if she were honest, it was a relief to finally be able to talk to someone about it. The _Ron_ issue. She'd been bottling up these feelings for months, to the point where sometimes she felt as though she would simply explode if she didn't say something, _do_ something about them. Of course, there were some things she would rather _die_ than tell Ginny, things that were too personal to discuss with anyone, let alone Ron's little sister. Thoughts she had. Things she imagined herself doing. Things that if Ginny knew about them, would put paid once and for all to her image of Hermione as the kind of prim, sensible, thoroughly _nice_ girl who would be utterly shocked if a boy tried to touch her boob.

"Don't worry," Ginny reassured her, "Your secret's safe with me. He wouldn't believe me, anyway."

"Thanks," said Hermione, gratefully. "And you know I would never say anything to Harry about… _you know_."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Oh, he _knows_," she said, bitterly. "He just thinks I'm a little girl with an embarrassing crush, that's all."

"That's why you need to go off and do your own thing. Prove to him you're a person in your own right and not just Ron's little sister."

Ginny sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Maybe I should just get myself a boyfriend like you said. _Snog _him out of my system."

They both laughed, then Hermione gave a low moan of frustration.

"I thought I could get over it," she said, shaking her head in disbelief at her own folly. "I thought I'd come back to school in September, and everything would go back to normal."

"That's what I thought, too," said Ginny, dryly. "And here I am, three years later..."

"Yes, but it's different for you. You haven't got to sit next to Harry every day in lessons. It makes everything so much harder when he's just... _there_ all the time."

"At least Ron actually knows you _exist," _said Ginny, ruefully. "As far as Harry's concerned, I might as well be bloody _invisible."_

"I don't think Harry knows _any_ girls exist yet, to be honest. I wouldn't take it personally."

_Best not to mention Cho Chang just yet. Ginny will notice soon enough, anyway. _

"I know, I know, just go and enjoy myself. Easy for you to say, you haven't got to wear horrible second-hand robes. Seriously, they look like the sort of thing that was fashionable when my _Mum_ was at school, and that was over twenty-five years ago. _And_ they're green. I _hate_ green! People always think that just because you've got red hair, you should wear bloody _green_ all the time. What colour are yours?"

"Blue."

"See, that's alright. Why couldn't mine have been blue?" She started to laugh. "Still, at least they don't look like a dead old lady's dress, like Ron's!"

"Are they really that bad?" asked Hermione, who had only caught a glimpse of Ron's much-lamented dress robes before he'd snatched them away and stuffed them in the very bottom of his trunk.

"Worse," said Ginny, now shaking with laughter, "And they're maroon as well, so..."

"Ron _hates_ maroon!"

"I know. We _all _know. Mum's the only one that doesn't." She shrugged. "I don't think there was much choice in the shop."

They were silent for a moment, then Ginny checked her watch and let out a groan. "Listen, I'd better get back to the common room, I've got an essay to finish. Thanks for this, though. It does help, being able to talk to someone who knows him."

Hermione beamed at her. "Any time!"

"You coming?"

"No, I think I'll just... stay here for a bit, if that's ok."

Ginny shrugged. "Suit yourself. See you later."

"See you."

Ginny left the room and Hermione leant her head back against the wall, her heart thumping madly in her chest. She needed a few moments alone to gather her thoughts.

Was Ginny right? Did Ron _really_ – fancy her? The thought made her head swim. He _did_ keep asking about her date, but she had just assumed it was because he didn't believe she really had one. Could he really be jealous? _No_. She dismissed it straight away. Ginny didn't know what she was talking about. She might be Ron's sister, but Hermione felt _she_ knew him rather better than Ginny did. She was the one who spent all her time with him, after all. Wouldn't she _know_ if he liked her... in _that_ way? After all, Ron was nothing if not obvious. The way he practically _drooled_ over Fleur Delacour! It was pathetic, actually. Embarrassing. Staring at her all the time as though he'd never seen a girl before. At least _she_ was subtle about it.

Still, she couldn't help wondering what his reaction would be when he saw her arrive at the ball with Viktor. Ginny was right about that at least; he would go out of his mind. But only because he practically hero-worshipped Viktor. It was silly, really. She was the first to admit she didn't know much about Quidditch, but as far as she was concerned he was just a nice, normal boy who happened to be extremely famous, that was all. A bit like Harry, in fact. Ron of all people ought not to be so star-struck by him.

She still couldn't quite believe that _Viktor Krum_ had asked her to the ball. _Her! _He could have had any girl in the school, and he had asked_ her!_ Of course, it was probably just because she was the only girl who didn't fawn over him. Girls following him everywhere like a flock of birds, twittering and giggling and flicking their hair. He was probably sick of all the attention.

When he had asked her, she had been so shocked she had said yes without even thinking about it. She hadn't expected _anyone_ to ask her to the ball, so she had been completely unprepared for the situation. And once she'd said yes, that was it, it was really happening. Hermione Granger was going to the ball with Viktor Krum! People would be so _shocked! _She was still rather in shock herself.

The more she thought about it, the more excited she got. She was going to the ball! A boy – _a real boy! _– had asked her to the ball! And not just any boy, but an _International Quidditch player! _Lavender and Parvati would be _stunned! _And everyone would look at them together and wonder what someone like _Viktor Krum_ was doing with someone like _her._ Sometimes, when she thought about that moment, she wanted to run up to her room, pull the curtains around her bed, and hide under the covers until the whole thing was over.

The ball was less than a week away now, and she was frankly _terrified_. Everyone would be looking at her! _Ron_ would be looking at her. What would he think, seeing her on the arm of his hero? The thought of Ron's reaction was almost as thrilling as the thought of going with Victor in the first place. Maybe he would finally start to see her as more than just his _other _best mate.

She shook her head and sighed. Yeah, right, and maybe he'd start to do his homework on time, too. Pigs would fly over Hogwarts before either of those things happened. Well... _sod _him, then. She was going to the ball with Viktor Krum! Ron, by the looks of things, was probably going to end up going on his own. Even if he did finally manage to get his act together and ask her, she would turn him down. Well, of course she would, because she already had a date, didn't she? She couldn't change her mind _now. _She'd given her word. Still, she couldn't help the tiny pang of regret she felt that, by saying yes to Viktor, she'd closed the door to the chance of going to the ball with Ron as her partner. Even it _was_ just as a friend.

* * *

_Endnote__:_

_Altogether now: "My biscuits bring all the boys to the yard..."_

_Oh, you know the drill by now... REVIEW, REVIEW, REVIEW!_

_Thank you! (er, I mean, "Merci!")_

_PB x_


	8. Chapter 8: Shears

_Author's Note__: _

_Because… arguments are SUCH fun to write, and it wouldn't be a Ron and Hermione story without a really good screaming row, would it? _

_Enjoy!_

_Pb x_

_p.s: To the people who asked if I was going to do the ball scene next, the answer is a resolute 'no', I'm afraid. My stories aren't about the big moments, they're about those small, apparently insignificant 'missing' moments that are, if anything, even more important in the development of their relationship. Besides, those scenes have been done to death elsewhere - I'd much rather write a completely new scene from my own imagination. Like this one... _

* * *

**Chapter Eight: Shears**

"Ron, would you pass me the pruning shears, please?"

Silence.

Hermione shot a deathly glare at Harry, who sighed, turned to where Ron was sitting on the other side of him, and said, wearily, "Ron, Hermione says can you pass the -"

Ron shoved the shears along the desk towards Harry without looking up from what he was doing or acknowledging the request in any way.

"Oh, for God's _sake!" _hissed Hermione, under her breath as Professor Sprout was nearby, "How long are you planning to keep this up for, Ronald? Or am I supposed to just _guess_ what you're sulking about this time?"

Ron ignored her.

Hermione shook her head in disgust and returned to her own work. The rest of the lesson was carried out in tense silence, apart from the pointedly aggressive turning of pages from Hermione and her angry, _"Oh, for -!"_ when Ron got up from his seat and walked halfway across the classroom to borrow Seamus's shears rather than ask her for his own pair back.

Finally, after what to Harry felt like one of the longest mornings _ever_, the bell rang for lunch and the class started hurriedly gathering up their things and pulling on their coats. There was no loitering when food was on the table, especially on a cold, windy March day like today.

"So, what time did _you_ get back last night, then?"

Harry and Hermione both froze. Ron was glowering at Hermione, who had her coat half-on, half-off. Behind them, Harry raised his eyes heavenwards, as if praying for deliverance.

She pulled her coat on and started doing up the buttons, angrily. "You sound like my _mother. _No, actually, you sound like _your_ mother!"

Ron didn't flinch. "So you're not going to tell us, then?" he asked, stubbornly.

"Don't drag _me_ into this!" protested Harry, alarmed. "I don't care what Hermione gets up to!"

Hermione turned her anger on him so swiftly he took a step backwards. "I wasn't getting _up _to _anything!"_

"I didn't say you _were! _Christ, don't take it out on _me!"_

Hermione pulled her bag over her shoulder and stormed out of the greenhouse, Ron at her heels.

"I suppose you were out with _Viktor _again, were you?"

"Yes, that's right, I was out with Viktor. We went for a walk. Although I don't know what you mean by _again_…"

"You went out with him _last_ week, too!"

"I didn't 'go out' with him, because he _isn't my boyfriend_, as I've told you a million times already! We went for a _walk! _That's all!"

"Oh, right, yeah," said Ron, sarcastically, "I'm _sure_ that's what you were doing until half past eleven at night! _Walking!"_

Hermione stopped dead and whirled around to face him, her face scarlet with fury. "How do _you_ know it was half past eleven?"

"Because I went to bed at ten past eleven and you still weren't back! Why, was it _later?"_

"Shall I see you two in the dinner hall, then?" asked Harry, desperately, but they were both too caught up in the argument to hear him.

"What were you doing, waiting _up _for me?"

"Well, what's wrong with _that? _I just wanted to make sure you got back alright, that's all!"

"Of course I got back alright, I was with _Viktor! _He's practically a grown-up, in case you hadn't noticed!"

"I'll see you both later then, shall I?" said Harry, then when neither of them replied, he simply gave a resigned shrug and walked away, shaking his head.

"Oh, I've _noticed!" _retorted Ron, with a bitter laugh, "Half the bloody school's _noticed!"_

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"What, you think I'm the only one who's noticed you're off gallivanting around the school half the night with some bloke twice your age?"

"He's two years older than me! And as for people noticing, there's _nothing_ to notice! We went for a _walk_! Why," she added, with a derisory laugh, "Are you worried about my _reputation?"_

"Yeah, well," said Ron, grouchily, "Maybe _somebody_ should be worried about it…"

"Oh, grow up!" she snapped. "You're behaving like an absolute idiot about this! _Harry_ hasn't got a problem with me being friends with Viktor -"

"Oh, _friends_, are you?" muttered Ron, imbuing the word with as much disdain as he could.

"… so I really don't know why _you_ have!"

Ron gave a short, humourless laugh. "Don't you?"

"No!" She folded her arms across her chest and waited. _"Well?"_

For one suspended moment they just glared at each other, then he shook his head and looked away, down at his shoes, kicking angrily at the ground.

"I just don't see why you need to spend so much time with him, if you're just friends…"

Hermione bit her lip. "So you're saying I'm a _liar_, are you?

"No, of course n-"

"But when I tell you that Viktor and I are _just friends_, you don't believe me?"

He shrugged.

Hermione threw up her hands in a gesture of futility. "I don't know what else you want me to _say!"_

Ron said nothing.

She shook her head. "This is stupid. I'm going back to the castle."

"He can't even pronounce your _name!" _Ron suddenly burst out, angrily.

She laughed. _"So? _Does it really matter? It doesn't bother _me_, so why on earth should it bother _you?_"

"Because he's obviously an _idiot! _How hard is it to learn how to pronounce your name? It's four syllables! Her-my-oh-nee! Hermione, Hermione, Hermione! See? _Easy!" _

"He's not an idiot, he's Bulgarian! It's harder to pronounce foreign names, in case you haven't noticed!"

"No, it isn't!"

"Well, your precious _Fleur _doesn't seem to be able to pronounce the 'H' in _'Arry! _But I suppose that's alright, is it?"

Ron went positively beetroot. "That's completely different! And she's not my - my - anything!"

"No, I suppose she isn't. Not after the way you embarrassed yourself asking her out in front of the entire school, anyway!"

"That wasn't my fault! She's a _Veela! _It's _magic! _But thanks for bringing it up, though! It's always nice to know you're there to remind me about it every time I do something stupid!"

Hermione gave a high, disbelieving laugh. "Oh, at least we agree that it was _stupid_, then!"

"Fine! Let's agree that I'm an idiot and you're the smartest witch in the history of the world! _Christ! _How do I even manage to tie my own shoelaces in the morning without the brilliant Hermione Granger to help me?"

"Oh, don't turn this around and make it all about _you! _God, you're completely self-obsessed, you know that?"

"Oh, fuck off."

Hermione's eyes widened. "Don't tell me to - to -"

"You can't even say the word, can you? Perfect Hermione Granger, never swears, never does anything wrong, never makes mistakes!"

"Of course I make mistakes!"

"When? Name one!"

"I can't think of one just like that!"

_"Hah!"_

"I never said I was perfect, Ron."

"You don't have to, do you?" He shook his head. "It's all so easy for you, isn't it?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"No, I don't suppose you would."

There was a long silence. Hermione looked around and realised that the rest of the class including Harry had all disappeared, and they were alone by the greenhouse. She'd been so caught up in their argument she hadn't even noticed them leave.

Ron kicked savagely at a nearby rock.

She sighed, and shook her head. "We should go and get some lunch."

"Oh, right, because that's all I care about, isn't it? Food?"

_"No," _she said carefully, her voice quivering with the effort of trying not to shout, "Because it's _lunch_ time."

Ron kicked moodily at the rock again.

"Have I done something to upset you, Ron? Because if I _have_…"

"Oh, don't start acting like you actually care!"

"Of course I care!" she snapped, offended, "You're my _friend!"_

_"Great."_

"What's that supposed to mean?"

A shrug. "Nothing."

Anger coursed through her once more and she gritted her teeth. "If you have a _problem_ with me, _Ronald_, why don't you just come out and _say_ it, instead of sulking like a four year old like you usually do?"

Ron reddened. "I don't have a problem with _you_…" he muttered.

"Oh, what a surprise!" she said, sarcastically, "I don't suppose I need to ask who you _do_ have a problem with?"

"He's not good enough for you, that's all."

She stared at him levelly for a few seconds. "Well, that's not really your decision to make, is it?"

Ron shrugged. "Just wouldn't have thought he'd be your type…"

"What, you mean nice, polite, friendly…?"

"He's practically old enough to be your dad!"

"He's seventeen! He's two years older than me!"

"Three years, actually. He's eighteen next month."

"So? Does it really matter? Hang on... how do _you_ know when his birthday is?"

Ron looked rather shamefaced. "I don't know!" he retorted, defensively, "I probably read it a fan magazine or something! Anyway, that's not the point! He's an International Quidditch player!"

"Who _you _once said was, and I quote, 'the most incredible Seeker I've ever seen'!"

"Yeah, well... that's not the point, is it?"

"Oh, isn't it? What _is_ the point, then, Ron? Come on, I'd love to know!"

Ron shrugged. "He's just too old for you, that's all."

"You said that already."

"Because it's _true!"_

"Well, if that's really the best you can come up with…"

"He just wants to get in your knickers!" Ron yelled, losing it completely now, "Can't you see that?"

"No, I _can't_ see that, Ron, because it _isn't true!_ Viktor has -"

"Oh, _Viktor!"_ he mocked.

"Yes, that's his name! _Viktor_ has never been anything less than a perfect gentleman to me, and if you were any kind of a _friend _you would be _happy_ for me, not try and ruin it just because you've developed this pathetic dislike for him for no reason at all!"

"Oh, I've got a _reason!_ I've got a _hundred_ reasons, if you bothered to listen -"

"Yes, and I've heard them _all _now, thank you! So now you've got them all off your chest, how about you shut up and let me make my own decisions for once?"

"It's not _about_ that! It's about not wanting to see you get _hurt_, that's all!"

"Rubbish!"

"What, you think I don't _care?"_ Ron asked, disbelievingly.

"Oh, I'm sure you do. I just don't think that's the reason you're kicking up such a fuss about this."

"Fine! _Fine! _If that's what you think! Just don't come running to me when he _dumps_ you!"

Her eyes narrowed. "And why do you think he's going to _dump _me?"

"Oh, _come_ on! Have you _seen_ him swanning around the bloody castle surrounded by girls all the time? He could have any girl he wants!"

"So why would he be interested in _me_, is that what you're saying?"

"_No... _I just meant, once he's got what he wants he'll move onto the next girl! I didn't mean you were… were…"

"So you automatically assume that a) Viktor must be only after one thing because why _else _would he be interested in me, and b) that I am _remotely_ the kind of girl that would _give_ it to him? _My God! _Could you be any _more_ offensive?"

Ron faltered in the face of her fury. "No, you don't get it… that's not what I… I didn't mean…"

_"Well! _At least now I know what you _really_ think of me!"

She stalked away from him along the path to the castle, her whole body rigid with fury. She was sick of this. The constant little digs at Viktor, the arguments that seemed to go round in circles, and most of all, Ron's apparent inability to realise that maybe there was another reason he disliked Viktor Krum so much, and it had nothing to do with protecting her _honour_.

And the most ridiculous thing was that they were arguing about a relationship that didn't even _exist! _Yes, she'd been to the ball with Viktor, but that was three months ago. Since then all they'd done was meet in the library or go for the occasional walk, and absolutely nothing _else _had happened at all. And if she were honest, she didn't _want_ it to. Yes, he was nice and polite and friendly and all those things she'd told Ron. Yes, she should probably be more excited that someone like Viktor, who was clearly considered a _catch,_ was actually _interested_ in her. But the truth was that when she thought about him her stomach didn't flip over the way it did when she thought about that infuriating ginger _idiot_ who was supposed to be her best friend.

Besides, she didn't feel ready for any of that yet. That two year age gap sometimes felt like a yawning chasm. Viktor was seventeen, worldly, experienced, practically an adult. She was fifteen, hopelessly inexperienced, and when he had kissed her after the ball she had felt... not like the grown-up woman she had expected to, but like a little girl who was way out of her depth. A lifetime spent in the library, it turned out, was no preparation for knowing how to act and what to do when a real boy liked you. Or what you were supposed to do when you didn't like him back.

Now that she thought about it, she realised that her entire memory of her first kiss had been almost completely blocked out by the memory of the blazing row she had had with Ron half an hour later. When she thought about that evening - doing her hair, putting on her new robes, meeting Viktor, everyone's eyes upon her, the dancing, the kiss - it was all now merely a blur of fleeting images in her head, whereas the argument with Ron she remembered every terrible word of.

And if she were completely honest, the kiss itself had been… well, _nice_. Perfect, in fact. Chaste, as one would expect from someone like Viktor, who was both responsible and a gentleman, contrary to what Ron seemed to think. But she couldn't help feeling a slight tinge of disappointment. Maybe it was because whenever she had imagined herself kissing Ron, it had been either hesitant and awkward (it was his first kiss too, of course, whereas Viktor clearly knew what he was doing), or passionate but messy. What it had _not_ been was _nice. _

The whole situation with Viktor had got rather out of hand. It was obvious that he liked her more than she liked him, but she didn't know what to do about it. He had even asked her to come and stay with him and his family in Bulgaria over the summer holidays. She had told him she would need to ask her parents, and would rather ask something like that in person when she saw them at Easter, but this was really just a delaying tactic. She knew from the moment he asked her that she would not go. It would be leading him on, letting him think his feelings for her were reciprocated. She liked him well enough as a friend, of course, and it had been interesting to learn how the wizarding community operated in a foreign country, but there was no spark. She went walking with him because she didn't know how to say no. They were only walks, after all. At least, to _her_. But Viktor was more of the strong and silent type, so inevitably she'd end up doing most of the talking, and he would just listen. After a while, she got sick of the sound of her own voice and started to long for a proper conversation, not with someone who would just nod and smile, and agree with her.

She hadn't told anyone about the invitation, not even Ginny, and especially not Ron. Although... maybe if she did, it might be the trigger he needed to finally realise his feelings for her were stronger than just friendship. Because she was absolutely certain now that he _did_ like her, in _that way_. Unfortunately, she had a feeling that, out of the two of them, she was the only who was aware of that fact.

She sighed. Why was it so hard? Why couldn't she just meet a boy she liked, who liked her back? Why did everything have to be so complicated?

"Hermione!"

She closed her eyes for a moment and mentally shook herself to clear her head of all the unwanted images therein, but didn't slow down.

"Hermione!"

"Go _away_, Ronald!"

He finally caught up with her and grabbed her arm to stop her walking. _"Wait!" _he said, breathlessly.

She wrenched her arm away, but stopped nevertheless. "What do you _want?"_

"I'm sorry."

_Damn him._

"I didn't mean that you were… it didn't come _out _right, that's all. I don't think you're -"

"A _slut?"_

"No! Of course I don't think that! Because you're _not_, obviously! I just… Look, I'm sorry, I just don't _trust _him, that's all. I just think he -"

Hermione folded her arms across her chest. "Oh, okay. So basically what you're saying is you don't trust my judgement?"

"_No! _That's not what I'm saying at _all! _Oh, _fuck!" _He buried his head in his hands and let out a scream of frustration. "You can't ever let me finish a sentence, can you?"

"Well, maybe if you would actually bother to _explain_ yourself properly, I wouldn't need to!"

"I am not _you!" _he bellowed, so suddenly he made her jump in fright. "I am _trying_, alright? I'm sorry if that's not good enough for you!"

She stared at him for a few seconds, her face white with fury. "Do you know what, Ron? It _isn't_."

He frowned. "Isn't what?"

"Good enough. You're very good at twisting things around so you're the victim, but -"

_"What?" _Ron exclaimed, incredulously. "What the hell's _that_ suppo–"

"But I'm not going to forget what you said so easily. I think you've made it perfectly clear what you think of me, _and_ Viktor -"

"I _apologised_ for that! I told you that wasn't what I meant!"

"Well, it obviously _was_ -"

_"Stop telling me what I think!"_

Hermione's eyes widened in shock. "I don't - I didn't -"

"Oh, _forget_ it! You couldn't give a toss _what_ I think, could you?"

It was Ron's turn to storm off towards the castle, Hermione running after him to try to keep up with his long stride.

"You're being ridiculous -"

"Whatever you say, Hermione. I'm sure you're right. You always are."

"Oh, get off your high horse for a minute, will you? Look, not that it's any of your business, but Viktor is _not_ my boyfriend, okay? And I've told you this a hundred times already -"

"Well, why do you keep sneaking off with him, then?"

"I'm not 'sneaking off' anywhere! We go for walks together, that's all!"

Ron gave a snort of derision. "Oh, so _that's_ what you call it!"

"Yes, that's what I _call_ it, because that's what it _is! _We are _just friends_, like you and _I_ are _just friends_. That's _all."_

He stopped walking so suddenly she nearly walked into the back of him. Their eyes met. Ron looked quickly away from her, down at his shoes, then lifted his gaze to hers again.

"That's all?" he said, with an odd sort of smile on his face.

She shrugged. "That's all."

"That's all," he repeated, then gave a resigned sort of shrug. "Okay, then."

He started walking again, slower this time, not even bothering to try to outpace her. Hermione frowned after him, not quite sure what had just happened. It wasn't like Ron to just give up on something like that. Usually he was like a dog with a bone, especially as far as Viktor was concerned.

She caught up with him quickly. "Where are you going?"

"Lunch."

She glanced at her watch. "I think we've missed it."

Another shrug.

"We'd better get to Potions."

No response.

"Ron!"

A sigh. _"What?"_

"We're supposed to be in Potions."

"I'm not going."

"What do you _mean_, you're not going? You can't miss lessons!"

"Why, what are you going to do? Report me?"

"Oh, don't start this again!"

"I'm not starting anything."

"You can't just not go to Potions, Ron. Snape will jump at the chance to give you detention, you know he will."

"Let him."

"Now you're just being ridiculous."

He rubbed his eyes wearily, then glanced at his watch. "Look, we've still got ten minutes. Let's go and get something to eat from the kitchens. I can't sit through Double Snape on an empty stomach."

Hermione stiffened. "I am _not_ going to the kitchens. You _know_ how I feel about that. It's bad enough that they have to cook three meals a day, but we can't expect them to make food for us whenever we feel like it. If the House Elves were being _paid_, it would be a different matter, but -"

Ron rolled his eyes. "I'm only talking about asking them to let us have a packet of biscuits or something. I don't _actually_ expect them to rustle me up a three course meal in the next - ooh, _eight minutes_."

"That's not the point! They're not there to be at your beck and call!"

"Fine!" snapped Ron, "Starve, then."

They glared at each other.

_"Fine_," said Hermione, in a rather high, tense voice. "I will. _Some_ of us actually have _principles_, you know."

And she stalked off to her lesson, head held high.

* * *

Ron stomped upstairs to the empty boys' dormitory, slammed the door closed behind him, and threw first the packet of biscuits he had liberated from the kitchens, and then himself down onto his bed. The alarm clock on his bedside table showed three minutes past one. Yep, he was officially going to be late. Well, if he was going to get detention for it anyway, he might as well be _properly_ late.

Or maybe not even go at all. He didn't think he could cope with Snape and his snide little remarks today. The way he was feeling he might well end up telling him what he _really_ thought of him, and if he did _that_, one little detention was going to be the least of his problems. He could hardly keep an eye on Krum if he was expelled now, could he?

He shoved three biscuits into his mouth, then lay back on the bed, staring moodily up at the ceiling. _Ha! _No _way_ were they just friends. He was nearly _eighteen_, for God's sake. He was an _International Quidditch player! _What was he doing messing around with a fifteen year old schoolgirl? There was only one reason that Ron could see, and he didn't like it at all.

If he _did_ anything... if that... _fucker_... did anything to her... he was personally going to make sure Krum never played Quidditch again. Break both his fucking legs. And his arms, for good measure. Make sure he never got to catch the Snitch again, either. He might have only just turned fifteen, but he was nearly the same height as Krum already. _And_ he knew where he could borrow an invisibility cloak. Krum would never know what hit him. _Literally_.

Yeah, he didn't trust that Bulgarian git as far as he could throw him. It must be patently obvious to everyone that he was only after one thing. She just couldn't see it. She always assumed people were going to be _nice_, and sometimes they weren't. Just because _she_ had principles, didn't mean everyone did. If only she would _listen_ to him once in a while, instead of assuming she was right all the time. He was only looking out for her, like a good friend was supposed to. What was so wrong with that? She ought to be _grateful_, instead of accusing him of interfering. But no, apparently _she_ thought that everything he said was rubbish, apparently _she_ thought he had no right to an opinion on the matter. Well, excuse him for _caring! _

What did she see in him, anyway? She didn't even _like_ Quidditch! What else did Krum have going for him? Well, there was the money and the fame, of course, but he'd never have thought Hermione was the type to be impressed by those kinds of things. If he'd thought about it at all (which he hadn't, of course, why would he?), he would have imagined Hermione would go for an intellectual type. Glasses. Library card. Clean. Neatly-dressed. Probably a Prefect. _Definitely_ not sporty. And almost certainly a complete and utter _tosser_.

Well, apart from that last one, none of those things applied to Viktor Krum. He could hardly string a sentence together for a start. For fuck's sake, he couldn't even pronounce her _name!_ What was it, then? The muscles? The 'sexy' foreign accent? He pretended to gag at the thought. Surely Hermione had higher standards than _that? _Although, maybe not. After all, _Lockhart_...

And another thing; Krum wasn't even particularly good-looking! Mind you, that didn't seem to put off the girls that followed him about the castle day and night. Presumably being famous and absolutely loaded cancelled all that stuff out.

Which didn't exactly bode well for Ron, who wasn't rich, famous, smart, well-built, neatly-dressed, _or_ good-looking. And he was pretty sure that a Devon accent didn't count as 'foreign', unless maybe you were from Cornwall.

Oh, what was the point, anyway? She'd made it perfectly clear what she thought of him.

"We're just friends, like you and _I_ are _just friends_. That's all."

He picked up the packet of biscuits and hurled them at the nearest wall, where they exploded in a shower of crumbs.

So now he knew where he stood.

* * *

_Endnote__:_

_For some reason the line, "He's not an idiot, he's Bulgarian!" keeps making me chuckle…_

_Please let me know what you thought of the chapter. The more reviews I get, the faster I write, and the faster I write, the quicker I post! Everybody wins!_

_Cheers!_

_Pb x_

_p.s: Readers of "SFOGI" might like to know that this is the same path from the Herbology greenhouse where Ron attempts to talk to Hermione and she drops all her things in the snow. In the Pinky Brown universe, anyway._


	9. Chapter 9: Safe

_Author's Note__: _

_Firstly, I should probably apologise for the long gap between chapters, but in my defence, the one-chapter-a-week deadline I initially set myself was a tad optimistic, especially in these later chapters where the R/H relationship is becoming more complex. I'm also having to spend every spare minute looking for somewhere to live, as my lease is up next month. As I'm sure you can appreciate, having somewhere to sleep come April kind of takes priority. The whole thing is completely exhausting, but once it's all sorted out and I'm in my new place I should be able to get this story back on track again. _

_I do want to assure you, however, that unless I am knocked down by a bus, I will NEVER leave a story unfinished. I never start posting a story without knowing how it ends, either; it's just the getting there that's the hard bit!_

_PB x_

* * *

**Chapter Nine: Safe**

He'd been at Grimmauld Place just over a week now, and Ron was practically bouncing off the walls. Hermione was arriving this evening. It had only been two weeks since they'd seen each other, but not a day had gone by when he hadn't thought about her and wondered what she was doing. And, more importantly who she was doing it with. He'd sent her an owl where he'd casually slipped in a question about whether she was going to Bulgaria to visit Viktor, but he'd obviously been too subtle, as her reply hadn't mentioned it at all. Alright, she'd decided to come and stay with them at Grimmauld Place, but that didn't mean she wasn't still planning to go and visit Krum later in the Summer. Ron was going slightly out of his head wondering about it. He couldn't relax until he saw Hermione and asked her in person.

Spending so much time cooped up with his entire family wasn't helping either. Especially after the Percy incident. Everyone was very tense. His Mum kept bursting into tears all over the place. His Dad just looked exhausted and miserable. The twins kept threatening violence. Ron just wanted to escape. But Grimmauld Place wasn't proving much better than home. At least at the Burrow he could go out into the garden and play some Quidditch in the fresh air. Here they weren't even allowed out, in case the house was being watched by Death Eaters or something. "It's just not _safe_," his mother kept repeating. He could hardly argue otherwise after what had happened to Cedric.

He wasn't even allowed to write to Harry, or at least, he wasn't allowed to tell him anything, literally _anything_, in case the letters were intercepted. Ron wasn't the best letter-writer in the world to begin with, but when he wasn't allowed to answer any of Harry's questions ("Have you heard anything? What's going on? Have you seen Dumbledore?") or tell his friend where he was, what he was doing, or who else was there, the task became near-impossible. The difficult subject of what had happened at the Tri-Wizard Tournament was hardly something that could be discussed in a letter either, and Ron had been reduced to scribbling some rubbish about the Quidditch transfer season, which Harry had seen through straight away. He knew from the tone of Harry's last letter that he was really pissed off with both Ron and Hermione for what he saw as their deliberately keeping things from him, and Ron could hardly blame him for that. He was starting to half-dread Harry's eventual arrival.

Also, if he were honest, the thought of getting to spend a couple of weeks with just Hermione was... pretty great, actually. It had taken him a long time to realise it, but he had finally admitted to himself that he fancied his best friend. Hard to deny it when for the last few months he'd been having all these... _thoughts _about her. Dreams about her, too. Although they weren't the kind of dreams he'd be happy analysing in Divination class. At least that was one advantage of being at home - having his bedroom all to himself instead of having to share it with four other blokes. Grimmauld Place was even better, mainly because the door had a _lock_.

It was much needed, too. He'd got the shock of his life a few nights ago when he'd heard a strange noise nearby mid- well, not _sleeping_, anyway - and switched on the light to see that evil little elf Kreacher rummaging through one of the cupboards. He'd made damn sure to lock the door every night since then. Of course, it didn't stop the twins, who had just passed their Apparition tests and were now driving Ron and everyone else barmy by Apparating in random places, just because they could. Including, rather unfortunately, Ron's bedroom. That combined with Sirius's mother's portrait shrieking at him every time he went anywhere near the front hall, and his own mother liable to bite his head off if he so much as breathed in the wrong way, was making him rather jumpy.

He glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time that minute, and wished he'd thought to check what time Hermione was arriving. Lupin had gone to fetch her several hours ago, and Ron couldn't understand why it was taking so long. All his nervous pacing was practically wearing a groove in the floorboards. If something had happened… His stomach gave a sick lurch. Where the hell _was_ she?

* * *

Hermione was walking as fast as she could, nearly running to keep up with Professor Lupin, who was striding on ahead of her at great speed. He was pulling her school trunk on wheels behind him, although she knew the wheels were only for show and he had lightened the trunk to make it weigh almost nothing. Her head was still reeling at this sudden turn of events. Only a few days ago she'd been at home with her parents, expecting to spend the summer with them, and then she'd received Ron's letter, asking her if she'd like to spend the rest of the holidays with his family, in some secret location he wasn't allowed to tell her about. Well, she was hardly going to turn down an offer like _that_, was she? Although it was ironic; Ron's letter had arrived literally as she was discussing with her mother Viktor's offer for her to go to Bulgaria to spend the summer with _him. _She'd found herself in the ridiculous position of playing her mother's role in that conversation:

"Well, darling, you're nearly sixteen, of course, and we know that we can trust you…"

"Yes, but it's in a foreign country! And you've never even _met _Viktor!"

"No, but _you_ have, and we trust your judgement. Besides, his parents will be there, won't they? It's not as though you'll be alone with him."

"But he's _eighteen! _He's practically a grown-up! Aren't you worried about the age gap?"

"Well, we _would_ be, if you hadn't already assured us he was just a friend. He _is_ just a friend, isn't he, darling?"

"Of course he is! Anyway, that's not the point!"

Her mother had laughed. "Isn't it? Then what _is_ the point? Don't you _want _to go and stay with Viktor?"

And then Ron's owl had arrived, and suddenly there was no point in pretending anymore. She couldn't contain her excitement.

"Ron wants me to go and stay with him - with his family, I mean - for the rest of the holidays! He says we'll all be at some secret location that he can't tell me about! Gosh, that all sounds very mysterious! I wonder if Harry will be there too? Oh, no, he says I can't tell Harry either. I wonder if - what are you laughing at?"

Her mother had just smiled at her knowingly and asked, "So I take it the Bulgaria trip's off, then?"

Mother and daughter had looked at each other, and in that instant, Hermione had realised that she hadn't been as clever at hiding her feelings as she thought.

"You know, don't you?" she had asked, weakly.

"Of course I _know_, darling, I'm your mother."

Hermione had buried her face in her hands in shame. "Oh, God."

"Besides, you smile whenever you mention his name."

"Oh, _God!_ Does Dad know?"

Her mother had chuckled, and called into the next room where her husband was in his study. "Andrew!"

"Yes, dear?"

"Which boy does Hermione like?"

There was a short pause, then: "She likes Ron, of course!"

_Of course_. Apparently it was evident to everyone except Ron himself. Ginny knew. Her parents knew. _His_ parents probably knew. Harry was a bit slow when it came to that kind of thing, but she wouldn't be surprised if even _he_ knew. And yet, now that it was out in the open, it was like a huge weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Her feelings for Ron were a _fact_. She had tried to deny them for almost a year and had failed spectacularly. If anything, her feelings were stronger than ever. And since there was no longer any point in hiding those feelings, why not do something about them? She liked him. She was almost positive that he liked her. All she had to do was wait for him to ask her out. Or _kiss _her.

A shiver of anticipation went through her. She did not yet know where she was going, but she knew that Harry would not be there. The thought of spending the rest of the summer with just Ron - well, and his family, and presumably Professor Lupin and Sirius, too - but she was sure there would be plenty of opportunities to be alone with him. Plenty of opportunities to let him know that his feelings for her were reciprocated. She sped up, wanting those opportunities to start as soon as possible.

"Professor -"

"I'm not your Professor anymore, Hermione. Call me Remus. And please - hurry up. We can't hang about."

"Where are we going?"

"I can't tell you yet. Please hurry. We're nearly there."

Ten minutes later they were standing in a dark and silent Georgian square, in front of a row of rather dilapidated looking four-storey terraced houses. Hermione frowned. This couldn't be it, could it?

"Here," said Lupin in an undertone, handing her a small scrap of parchment. "Read this."

She held the paper up to her eyes so she could read it under the yellow glow of the street light. "The headquart-"

"_Not out loud!" _hissed Lupin, "In your head. Memorise it, and then give it back to me."

Hermione looked down at the scrap of parchment and silently read, _"The headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix may be found at No. 12 Grimmauld Place, London."_

"Alright?"

She nodded, and handed him back the parchment. He waved his wand, and it instantly dissolved into ash in his hand. Another tap of his wand and the little pile of ashes vanished into thin air.

She glanced up at the house in front of them. No.11, no.13 – wait, _no.13?_

"But Profess – Remus, I mean – there _is_ no –"

But the words died in her throat, her eyes widened in shock, and she let out a gasp. A whole new house was squeezing itself out between two buildings, where moments before there had been none. Lupin put a steadying hand on her shoulder.

"Come on," he said, grimly, hurrying up the front steps.

She followed him, still rather confused. "But -"

"I should warn you," he told her, in a low voice, "When we get inside, we need to be as quiet as possible. Try not to make any sound."

"Why?"

Lupin grimaced. "You'll find out soon enough."

He pulled his wand out from beneath his cloak and tapped the huge, heavy front door a couple of times. The door swung open a few inches, revealing a dimly-lit hallway, and he gestured for her to go ahead of him.

Excited but slightly fearful, she hesitated for a moment, then went inside, instantly tripping over a troll's foot umbrella stand which clattered to the floor with a noise so loud it seemed to echo through the entire house. She turned to apologise to Lupin, but before she could, there was a hideous, deafening wail and a voice nearby screamed:

"_Mudblood whore! Filthy Muggle slut!"_

Hermione reeled back in shock, but Lupin pushed her onwards into the hall, closing the door hurriedly behind them.

"Don't listen! Keep moving!"

"_Half-breed scum! Get out of my house!"_

Before she could even process what was happening, there was the sound of heavy footsteps, and someone - or something - ran towards her out of the shadows. Disorientated, she ducked down and put her arms up in front of her face to defend herself from attack.

_"No! _Leave me alone!"

"Hermione!"

"_Defacing the house of my forebears!"_

"Shut up, you vicious old cow!"

"Hermione!"

_"Traitors and half-breeds and thieves!"_

"Shut _up!"_

Several people were shouting at once now, but she could not make out what they were saying, it was all just a cacophony of noise. Panicking, she turned and tried to run for the door, but someone grabbed her by the forearm and pulled her backwards. She screamed and lashed out in terror, her flailing hand brushing against skin and hair. She tried to reach for her wand, but they grabbed her around the waist from behind so her arms were pinned to her sides and she could not get away. Struggling furiously, she tried to wrench herself free, but their grip was firm and try as she might, she could not move her arms. Terrified, she kicked out wildly behind her as hard as she could and felt her foot connect with someone's shin.

"Ow! _Fuck! _Hermione! Hey! Stop it! _Stop! _It's me! It's Ron!"

"_Ron?_"

She stopped struggling instantly, his grip on her arms slackened, and she spun around to face him. For a suspended moment they just stared at each other, both breathing heavily and pink-faced with exertion. Hermione had barely enough time to register that he was so close she could almost count the freckles on his nose, before Ron let go of her as though she were on fire and jumped back about a foot, stammering an apology that she could not hear. The disembodied voice was still screaming insults, Lupin had his wand out further down the hallway and seemed to be yelling at - well, the _wall. _She saw Sirius running to help him from a door at the end of the hall, followed by a young woman with pink hair she did not recognise. The noise was so appalling it was impossible to think. She turned back to Ron again.

"Who was that?" she demanded, "What's going on? Where are we?"

Ron shook his head, gestured to his ears, and tried to shout something above the din.

_"It's okay! You're safe now! It's just Sirius's mother!" _

_"What?" _she shouted back, having not understood a word.

_"Sirius's mother!"_

_"What?"_

Ron ran a frustrated hand through his hair. _"Look, why don't you come up to my room and I'll explain!"_

She shook her head. _"I can't hear you! Can't we_ _go somewhere quieter?"_

He pointed towards the stairs behind him and gestured for her to follow him.

She followed him dazedly up two flights of stairs, and into a small, dark, high-ceilinged bedroom, which contained two single beds set against opposite walls. Ron threw himself down on the messiest bed, which was clearly his, and after a moment's hesitation, Hermione crossed the room and perched awkwardly on the edge of the other one. They exchanged nervous glances, neither quite knowing what to say.

Suddenly the sound of muffled screaming from two floors below ceased, and in the ringing silence that followed Hermione could only hear her heartbeat thudding wildly in her ears. It was so loud she was sure he must be able to hear it from the other side of the room.

"Sorry about that," said Ron, with an apologetic shrug, "It's Sirius's mother, you see –"

"Sirius's _mother?_ But I thought she was dead!"

"Ah, well, she _is_... but her portrait's still in the hall. They've tried getting it off, but there's some sort of sticking spell on it. She doesn't like her house being used for Order meetings. One of those pure blood maniacs." He pulled a face. "You know, like the Malfoys."

He forced a laugh, but she did not seem to be able to manage one in return. He watched her worriedly. She seemed really shaken up by what had happened downstairs. He felt a surge of guilt. It was his fault she was even here in the first place. After all, if the Burrow wasn't safe, with all its magical wards and protections, then Hermione's house _definitely_ wasn't. She might be the smartest girl in school, but there was no way she would be able to fight off a Death Eater attack single-handed. Ironically, she probably would have been safer in Bulgaria, but he wanted her here, with them. He wanted to _know _she was safe. Even if something did happen, if it ceased to be a safe house for whatever reason, there were enough people here to put up a decent fight.

So he had spoken to his Dad, who had spoken to Professor Lupin. And eventually, after what seemed like an agonisingly long wait, they had agreed to let him write to Hermione and invite her to come and stay, on the condition he did not give away where they were, or who else was staying there. (Like he would! Did they all think he was stupid or something? What did they expect him to say? "Dear Hermione, here's the address of Sirius's secret hiding place. Can you pass this on to any Death Eaters you know?") Lupin had even insisted on reading the letter before he sent it. Not that there was anything in it he minded anyone else reading, particularly, but still…

"H-Hermione?" he asked tentatively, wondering if he should go over there and try to comfort her, but not knowing how to. His attempt downstairs had hardly been what you might call successful, seeming only to make her panic more. He'd realised she was running for the door and acted instinctively, his mother's words _"It's not safe out there!" _ringing in his head. But what a stupid thing to do, grab her from behind like that. Of _course _she had thought she was being attacked and lashed out! He cursed himself silently. God, he was an idiot.

Hermione was staring unseeingly at the floor, her mind still full of noise and panic.

"She called me – she called me a Mudblood whore."

Ron flinched, but waved a dismissive hand. "I wouldn't take it personally. She calls me 'the blood traitor runt.' Hasn't got a good word to say about anyone, that woman. A bit like my Great-Aunt Muriel, now I come to think of it."

She laughed, and felt a little better.

"Anyway," said Ron, brightly, "She's dead and we're alive, and that's the best kind of victory, isn't it?"

Hermione felt a strong surge of emotion within her, torn between bursting into tears and throwing herself across the room and kissing him until he couldn't breathe.

He rubbed his arm self-consciously and shot her an awkward grin and she remembered the feeling of his arms around her, their bodies so tightly pressed together that she could feel his warm breath on her neck. It had been so easy for him to subdue her. For the first time she suddenly realised that he was stronger than her now. She'd always been able to beat him in exams and when they were pitted against each other in lessons with their wands, but now there was a definite shift of power. Physically, he could beat her. And it wasn't as though they were ever going to have a physical fight, so why did it make her feel so… odd? The answer came to her in a flash. _Because physical is what you want this relationship to be. _Because the idea that he could pin her to the wall - or the bed! - and she would be powerless to resist, was utterly thrilling. Ha! As if she would _resist! _The thought of it sent a powerful wave of electricity through her body and she let out an involuntary gasp.

Ron was looking at her strangely. "Are you _sure _you're alright?"

She nodded, unable to trust herself to speak. "Mm-hm."

"I'm sorry I had to, um..." He bit his lip, embarrassed. "You know, get physical."

"That's quite alright," Hermione squeaked, fervently wishing he had chosen different words. _Alright! _She'd be playing the scene over and over in her head for _weeks!_

Ron was mentally kicking himself. Of all the words he could have used! _'Get physical!' _God, he sounded like a total _cock._

They both exchanged nervous smiles, and Hermione suddenly remembered something.

"Are _you_ alright? I'm sorry I kicked you. I thought -" She felt rather foolish all of a sudden. "I thought I was being attacked."

He grinned, and leant down to rub his shin. "You put up a good fight. I bet I'll have a huge bruise there tomorrow."

She had _hurt_ him. So much for letting him know how she felt!

"Oh, _God! _I'm so sorry!"

"I'll live," he said dryly. "I've got five older brothers, remember? I'm used to a bit of violence."

"Oh, God!" she repeated, still appalled.

"Don't worry about it," he muttered, "Just do me a favour and don't mention it to the twins, OK? I'll never live it down otherwise."

"But -"

"Honestly, it's fine. Anyway, rather that than a knee in the b-" He caught himself, and flushed slightly. "Well, anyway, it's fine."

They fell silent for a few moments, neither quite knowing what to say. Hermione felt rather thrown by this unexpected turn of events. A few minutes ago she'd been in genuine fear for her life, and now it transpired there had been nothing to worry about at all. She had screamed in front of Ron. She had acted like a frightened little girl. She had been almost hysterical. If his familiar voice hadn't broken through her terror, she might have properly injured him, or herself. The whole experience had been rather humiliating, in fact, and she was very glad that no-one else apart from Professor Lupin had witnessed her loss of control.

But even worse than this humiliation was her utter confusion about the unexpectedly physical - that word again! - turn her meeting with Ron had taken. She'd been looking forward to seeing him again for the whole of the last fortnight, imagining what they would say to one another and how he might react on seeing her, but not once had it involved his arms around her (well, not from behind, anyway), or her kicking him in the shin. She felt her cheeks burning at the memory.

"So what have you been up to for the last couple of weeks, then?" asked Ron, sensing that a change of subject was probably required.

She flashed him a grateful smile. "Not much," she told him, "Catching up on some reading for next year, mostly."

The corners of Ron's mouth twitched slightly.

"What?" she demanded.

He shook his head. "I didn't say anything."

"Well, my parents are at work most of the time, aren't they?" she said, defensively, "It's alright for you; you've got lots of people around to talk to."

"I'll swap with you any day," he retorted, "At least you haven't got Fred and George Apparating in your bedroom every five minutes."

She laughed, then suddenly realised she'd probably be sharing a room with Ginny. She didn't want Ron's brothers Apparating in her room while she was undressing!

"Don't worry," said Ron, reading her mind, "They don't do it to Ginny. Merlin forbid anyone upsets our precious little sister."

Hermione frowned. As an only child herself, she'd never understood the love-hate nature of sibling relationships.

"So," she asked, brightly, "How's _your_ holiday been so far? Fun?"

Ron let out a groan. "Don't ask!"

"That bad?"

"Worse."

"How come?"

He sighed. "Well, the war, obviously. But mainly… well, Percy."

"_Percy? _Why? Oh, my God, he's _alright_, isn't he?"

Ron gave a tense shrug. "Far as I know."

She waited for him to elaborate.

"He's left home," he said, dully. "He had a big row with Dad, they both said some things... It was... horrible, actually."

Hermione was shocked. This didn't sound like Percy at all. He'd always been the quiet, sensible one of the family.

"What sort of things?"

Ron flushed crimson. "Just stuff about the family, really." His voice was very low now. "About Dad, mostly. Saying it's his fault we've never had any money because Dad's got no ambition, that sort of thing. Said he cares more about Dumbledore than his own family. I mean, all of us get sick of never having any money sometimes, but _this_..."

A jolt went through her. Ron almost never talked about the Weasleys' money situation if he could help it, so for him to bring it up deliberately like this, she knew things must be really serious.

"But… why?"

Ron sighed again. "Percy's been promoted. Personal assistant to the Minister of Magic."

She stared at him, astonished. "But… what about everything that happened last year? You said he was lucky not to be sacked!"

"He was."

"Well, then how did he manage to wangle that one?"

Ron shrugged. "That's what we were wondering."

He glanced up, caught her eye, and looked away again, embarrassed. "Dad thinks... he thinks Fudge only gave Percy the job so he can spy on us. Pass him information on Dumbledore and his supporters."

She gasped. "Percy wouldn't do something like that, surely?"

Ron shrugged again. "That's what I used to think as well. But he's already chosen his job over his family. Some of the things he said... they'll take a lot of forgiving, I can tell you. Whatever you do, don't mention his name in front of Mum and Dad. Actually, just don't mention it at all, that'll be safer."

He stopped and rubbed his temples wearily. "Seriously, it's been horrible at home lately. _Horrible_. Everything's just been really shit. Mum keeps bursting into tears and Dad keeps breaking things. Fred and George keep threatening to go round there and smack some sense into him. Can't say as I blame them, either. I'm really glad you're here now, actually. At least we can talk about something else apart from bloody Percy for a change."

She smiled. "I'm glad I'm here, too."

He looked across at her and grinned. "You wait 'til Mum's got you cleaning out the attic, you won't think that then. She won't even let us use magic!"

She laughed. "Imagine!"

They both laughed, then Ron remembered what he wanted to ask her, and looked away quickly. He picked up the Quidditch magazine that was lying next to him on the bed and pretended to glance through it in a casual manner.

"So... you're, um, staying here for the rest of the holidays, are you?"

_Christ, why was his heart beating so fast?_

Hermione paused before replying, lightly: "I don't know yet."

_Why had she said that? Of course she was! Why not just tell him?_

Ron looked rather dejected. "Oh. Better offer?" he asked, rather harshly.

"What, than cleaning the attic with you lot?" she joked.

He managed a thin smile. He glanced down at the magazine in front of him again, barely registering what he was looking at.

_Oh, fuck it. _

"So you're not going to Bulgaria, then?"

She was silent for a few moments, considering whether she should just be honest, then said, watching him carefully for his response, "I don't think so, no."

Ron struggled to stop himself from punching the air in triumph. Yes! She's not going to Bulgaria! _Yesss!_

"Oh, right," he said in what he hoped was an indifferent tone, but his heart was soaring. "That's good, then. I mean, not _good_, obviously, just… well, I'm glad you're here, anyway." He corrected himself hurriedly. "Well, not _just_ me. Harry will be too, when he gets here. And Ginny as well, obviously. Not just me."

Hermione bit back a smile, and decided the moment was right to change the subject.

"Have you heard from Harry?"

Ron shook his head. "Not since last week. I think he's freaking out a bit."

"I know. I wish he was here."

"Mm," said Ron, privately wishing that Harry would stay away for at least a few more days, so he could spend some time with Hermione alone.

"I can't imagine what it must have been like, being there when Cedric… _you know."_

A wave of guilt coursed through him. "Yeah," he mumbled, "It must have been horrible."

There was a long silence.

"Have you ever seen anyone die?" he asked, curiously.

She shook her head. "No. You?"

Ron shook his head too. "I suppose it could have been worse."

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Well… you know…" He rather wished he had not brought it up. "No loads of blood or screaming. At least it was quick."

"I think that _would_ be worse," she said, gravely, "For the person watching, I mean. No warning, just a flash of green light. Nothing you could do to stop it."

They exchanged uneasy glances, both imagining themselves in the same situation, only with the dead body of the other lying at their feet.

"At least he didn't suffer, though," said Ron, with a grimace. "If I was going to - well, that's how I'd want to go. Quickly and painlessly."

Hermione gave an involuntary shudder. "Don't. Not even as a joke."

"Who's joking?"

They looked at each other. Hermione shook her head. "I don't think that's much comfort to Harry, though."

Ron was silent for a few moments, and then he gave a helpless shrug. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say to him."

"You don't have to say anything," she told him, reassuringly, "Just be there, that's all he wants."

"Yeah," said Ron, angrily, "But I'm _not_ there, am I? I'm _here_, and he's stuck at his Aunt and Uncle's house where he hates it, and doesn't have a clue what's going on. I wish I could do something."

"Me too. His last letter was really short. Just 'If you've got nothing to say, then don't bother'."

"Yeah, I got one of those, too. He's gonna be really pissed off with us when he finally does get here, isn't he?"

Hermione shrugged. "Probably," she admitted.

"I mean, I don't _blame_ him exactly, but it's not like it's our fault, is it? If we were allowed to tell him, we would."

"I know."

Ron stifled a yawn. "Have you had anything to eat?"

She smiled. "Not since lunchtime."

"Let's go and find out what time we're having dinner. Then I can give you the grand tour."

"I'd like that."

"Yeah, you say that _now_, but really I'll just be showing you all the places you'll be spending the rest of the holidays cleaning."

She laughed. "I don't mind. It'll be fun!"

Ron shook his head. "You have a weird idea of fun, Granger."

He gestured for her to leave the room first and they went downstairs to the kitchen. Ron wanted to sing. She wasn't going to Bulgaria! Maybe she didn't fancy Krum after all. Or maybe she did for about ten minutes and she'd finally realised what a tosspot he was. Maybe they really _were _just mates, like she said. Whatever the reason, he didn't really care. The point was; Krum was out of the picture. It was the best news he could have hoped for.

"Mum! _Mu-um!"_

"I'm not deaf, Ronald, there's no need to shout."

His mother kept her head bowed and surreptitiously lifted a corner of her apron to wipe her eyes, and Ron knew she had been crying again. Bloody Percy.

"Sorry. What time's dinner?"

"In about two hours. We're waiting for Kingsley and your Dad to come back from - to come back, anyway."

_"Two hours! _But I'm hungry _now!"_

"Well, I'm sure there's something in the cupboard. Why don't you have a look?"

"Is there any cake?"

"Well, how should I know? You've got eyes, haven't you?"

God, she was snappy today. Best not to annoy her any more than necessary. He ducked past her and opened one of the cupboards.

Hermione, who had been hovering in the doorway, came into the room uncertainly. "Hello, Mrs Weasley. How are you?"

"Oh, hello, Hermione, I didn't see you there. Thank you for coming to help with the cleaning. I know it's probably not how you expected to spend the summer."

"Oh, I don't mind," Hermione smiled, "My parents both work, so I'd just be at home on my own anyway. It's nice to have people around for a change."

"Hmph," sniffed Molly. "Too many people, if you ask me. All these comings and goings… I don't know how I'm supposed to get anything done."

Over her shoulder Ron caught Hermione's eye and raised his eyes heavenwards, as if to say, "Told you!"

"Still," Molly continued, "An extra pair of hands _would_ be useful. Maybe you can persuade _this one_" - she nodded curtly at her youngest son - "To get out of bed before midday occasionally."

Ron grinned and held his hands up in defence. "Hey, all this cleaning's exhausting, you know!"

"Oh, really? So what was your excuse for not getting out of bed when we were at home last week? I didn't see you doing any cleaning _then!"_

Ron shrugged. "I'm just not a morning person, that's all."

"You're just lazy, that's what you are!"

"Yeah, alright," muttered Ron, giving up on the food search and just wanting to get away from his mother's nagging. "Come on, Hermione."

He pushed her out into the corridor and headed back upstairs, shaking his head. "See what I mean? She's been like that ever since we got home from school. Never lets up for a second."

"She's just stressed," Hermione reminded him, following him up the stairs.

"I _know_," he said, dryly, "It's still a pain, though." He came to a halt on the landing and turned around to look at her. "I mean, two hours 'til dinner! I can't wait that long. I'll _die!"_

"I've got some biscuits!" Hermione suddenly remembered, "In my trunk!"

Ron looked half-amused, half-exasperated. "And you only mention this _now?"_

She shrugged. "I forgot."

"Well, what are we waiting for?"

"I don't know where Profess - Remus put my trunk, though."

"It'll be in Ginny's room," Ron told her confidently, "Well, it's your room now too, of course."

They continued up the stairs to her room on the floor above.

"How come you've got biscuits, anyway?" Ron asked, pushing open the door without knocking and throwing himself down on Hermione's neatly-made bed before she could say anything. "You don't even _eat_ biscuits."

Hermione flushed. "I do sometimes! Anyway, they're a present."

"Oh, who for?"

She hesitated, and looked away from the rather disconcerting sight of Ron lying sprawled on her bed. "Well…" she mumbled, pretending to be interested in a framed painting of a bowl of fruit on the wall, "For you."

Ron looked rather stunned. "For _me?"_

She felt very warm all of a sudden. "And Ginny, of course," she added, hastily.

_Oh, you liar. As if you gave Ginny a second thought when you were buying those biscuits! _

_"_Where is Ginny, anyway?" she asked, feeling her face flush a telltale crimson.

He shrugged. "Helping Fred and George with something, I think. They've got some sort of secret project they're working on."

"Oh?" she asked, intrigued, "What sort of secret project?"

"Dunno. Something to do with ears, I think they said."

For a moment she thought she must have misheard. _"Ears?"_ she repeated, blankly.

He laughed. "I don't ask. Best not to with Fred and George, to be honest. What kind of biscuits did you get?"

Hermione knelt on the floor and opened the lid of her trunk, carefully lifting out the neatly-folded piles of clothing and placing them on the bed beside her. Jumpers were in one pile, school robes in another, and socks in yet another.

"Oh, my _God!" _guffawed Ron, "Have you got your knickers in alphabetical order as well?"

She smacked his forearm lightly, and he yelped and rubbed it, although it hadn't really hurt. Not as much as that kick in the shins earlier, anyway.

_"_What was _that_ for?"

Hermione fixed him with a severe glare. "You'd better be nicer to me, Ronald Weasley, or it's going to be a _very _long wait until dinner."

Ron laughed. "Alright, alright! I'm sorry, okay? What biscuits did you get?"

She pulled out the supermarket carrier bag the biscuits were wrapped in and handed them over to him. He unwrapped them reverently, as though they were wrapped in fine muslin and not just a plastic bag.

"Oh, God, you brought chocolate Hob-Nobs! You're brilliant, did you know that? Absolutely bloody brilliant!"

She flushed at the unexpected compliment. "You're ridiculously easily pleased, you know that?"

Ron chuckled. "Small things please small minds, you mean?"

_"No!" _she retorted, "That's not what I meant _at all!"_

"Can I open them?"

"Of course you can, they're your present."

Ron picked up one of the packets of biscuits and tossed it neatly onto the opposite bed.

"Ginny can have that one. Hey, you've got four packets! Who are the other two for, you and Harry?"

Hermione suddenly realised she was still kneeling at his feet and stood up quickly, not quite knowing where to sit. Ginny's bed was a lot further away than she wanted to be, but sitting next to Ron on her own bed seemed far too close for comfort.

"No, they're all for you," she told him, rather flustered.

Ron frowned. "You said they were for me _and_ Ginny."

He swung his legs off the bed and shuffled up to make room for her to sit down.

"Yes," she said, quickly, wishing he would stop asking awkward questions and just _eat _them, "That's right."

He tossed one of the packets back into her trunk. "Save that one for when Harry gets here. You'd better look after them though." He flashed her a grin. "I don't think I could resist if they were in my room."

She laughed, and finally felt relaxed enough to sit down next to him. "I don't think there's any doubt about _that!"_

He laughed too. "So that's one for me and one for you, then."

"I don't want a whole packet, Ron. I don't want to spoil your mum's dinner."

He rolled his eyes. "Fine, we'll just open one, then. Have the other one back as well, we might need it tomorrow. Honestly, all this having dinner at random times business is getting ridiculous. I'm used to having dinner at six at the latest."

"Do you know what they're doing? The Order?"

Ron shook his head. "They don't tell us anything," he told her, disgustedly. "Every time there's a meeting Mum makes us go to our rooms, like we're ten years old or something. We're only good for cleaning and shouting at, apparently."

"So you don't have any ideas at all?"

"Well, we think they're probably following known Death Eaters, trying to find out what they're up to. You know, like Malfoy's Dad. And some of them are trying to recruit other people to the Order. Anyway -" - he brightened suddenly - "Bill's coming back next week, so we're hoping we can twist his arm and get some information out of him..."

He tailed off, temporarily distracted by tearing open the packet of biscuits with his teeth. He offered them to her first and she took one, then he did too, shoving the whole biscuit in his mouth and immediately closing his eyes and letting out a soft moan of pleasure.

"Oh, Gooooddddd… that's _soooo_ good…"

Hermione suddenly felt rather warm. She averted her eyes hurriedly.

"So you said Bill was coming back to London to work for the Order?" she asked, quickly. "What about Charlie, is he coming back too?"

Ron shook his head, his mouth too full of biscuit to answer. "Not as far as I know. Someone's got to look after the dragons. It's funny, Mum's been wanting Bill to come back for England for years, but now he is, she's all annoyed about it."

"I suppose she's scared."

"Yeah," nodded Ron, swallowing the remainder of his biscuit. "I mean, Percy's alright, he's got a desk job -" he pulled a disgusted face - "And Charlie's in Romania, and the rest of us are still at school. But Bill's going to be a proper member of the Order. Dad is too, although we're not supposed to know about it. It's fairly obvious, though. Why else would we be here?"

He glanced across at her, unsure of how much he should tell her. "Fred reckons we're an obvious target. You know, being _Muggle-lovers _and all." He spat the phrase out in disgust.

Hermione felt shock cut through like a knife. It had never even crossed her mind that the reason the Weasleys were all staying at Grimmauld Place was that their own home wasn't safe anymore, that they were considered a target. She'd always thought of Harry as the one she should be afraid for, Harry as the one that needed protecting. The thought that something might happen to _Ron_ made her breath catch in her throat. For the first time she realised how serious You-Know-Who's return really was. Her last two weeks at home had been fine. She hadn't felt the need to tell her parents about Cedric's death, and she certainly wasn't going to tell them about You-Know-Who's return. Consequently life had carried on pretty as much as normal in the Granger household. She hadn't even _thought _about what it must be like for Ron, coming from a wizarding family. It must be like finding out that Hitler was back and bent on revenge on the people who had overcome him. She could go back to her parents and her old Muggle life, but for Ron, this _was_ his life. Hiding in a safe house like Anne Frank because the Death Eaters might come for them next.

"Are you scared?" she asked him, trying to control the tremor in her own voice.

He shrugged. "Dunno. It doesn't feel real, yet, d'you know what I mean? I know that Cedric's dead, and that You-Know-Who's back, and there's probably going to be another war, but… I mean, I don't remember what it was like last time, so..."

He glanced at her quickly. It was funny, he would never talk about all this stuff with Harry - he had enough to worry about, after all - but somehow, with Hermione, it was easy to talk about these things.

"You know Mum's brothers were both killed?"

She nodded.

He rubbed his eyes, wearily. "Well, Bill's the same age they were when they died. So I can't really blame her for getting all stressed, I suppose. And Cedric was the same age as Fred and George, and they'll be out of school in a year. They're already of age. If there _is_ a war… well, I can't see them doing a Percy and taking desk jobs at the Ministry. They're going to want to join the Order, too."

She was silent for a few moments. He was right, if there was a war, his brothers would all want to fight, and she couldn't imagine Ron standing back and letting them fight alone. And besides, it wasn't as though You-Know-Who was going to show mercy and spare a fifteen year old boy, especially one who was pushing six foot and came from a well-known family of blood traitors. He'd already killed Cedric, and nearly Ginny too, not to mention countless other children and babies in the previous war.

"So who else is in the Order?"

"Well, Dad, obviously, and Bill when he sorts out his transfer back to London, which should be next week sometime, Sirius and Professor - Remus, I mean. Quite a few people you'll know already; Dumbledore, McGonagall, Hagrid's been here a couple of times… oh, and _Snape." _He pulled a face.

_"Snape's _in the Order?"

"That's what I thought, too. Harry will probably have some sort of conspiracy theory about it, I'm sure." He rolled his eyes. "Then there's Tonks - you'll like her, she's really cool. She's only about twenty or something as well."

"Oh," said Hermione, coming to a realisation, "The woman downstairs with pink hair?"

Ron chortled. "That's her. She's hilarious, really funny. Ask her to do her pig impression, it's brilliant!"

Hermione felt the familiar stab of jealousy that Ron's every admiring glance at Fleur had elicited last year. She shook her head. _Ridiculous_. Tonks - a silly name, Hermione thought - was obviously a grown-up, and hardly likely to be interested in a fifteen year old boy. But then, nor had Fleur, and that hadn't stopped Hermione developing a near-pathological dislike of the girl. Her increasing awareness that it was jealousy plain and simple, just the same as Ron's resentment of Viktor, had not made her feel any better about the situation. They were female, Ron had noticed them, and he had not noticed _her_. That was all that mattered. They clearly had something she didn't - beauty, humour, the ability to do a really good pig impression - and those were obviously things Ron valued in a woman. Certainly above the ability to memorise practically all of _'Hogwarts: A History'. _

She frowned, and the tiniest sliver of doubt crept into her mind. Was she wrong about this? Did he _really_ like her… in _that _way? Perhaps it had just been a temporary crush while Viktor Krum was on the scene. Maybe she was only interesting to him when someone _else _wanted her. Maybe now Viktor was out of the picture, he'd lose interest again.

"Then there's Mad-Eye Moody," continued Ron, oblivious to her agonising, "The _real _one. And Kingsley Shacklebolt - he's really cool too, but just a little bit scary. Mundungus - he's hilarious, but he'll nick anything which isn't nailed down, so keep an eye on your purse. Oh, and then there are a whole load of people who we see going in and out of meetings but never get introduced to. I think they're Aurors."

She was silent for a few moments.

"You know Harry will want to join?"

He gave a short laugh. "Yeah, I know. No way they're gonna let him, though. He's not even fifteen yet."

"Small mercies," she murmured.

He forced a brittle smile. "Yeah."

They munched their biscuits in silence.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_Well, I hope it was worth the wait!_

_Thanks for reading, reviewing, voting for me, your patience, and oh, just being generally lovely._

_Please review!_

_PB x_


	10. Chapter 10: Dirt

_Author's Note__:_

_Heartfelt thanks to everyone who reviewed and PM'd in the last couple of weeks, I read and appreciated every one, I promise you. Apologies for not being able to reply to you all, but my life has been rather up in the air lately. I am currently staying in a friend's spare room while I continue to search for somewhere permanent to live, and am living out of a suitcase with all my belongings stacked up in boxes around me, so I do hope you'll excuse me for any delay. If it helps, Chapter 11 (my favourite chapter!) is mostly complete, so once things are sorted out on the home front, I should be able to get it finished and everything back on track again. Fingers crossed, anyway!_

_PB x_

* * *

**Chapter Ten: Dirt**

For the next few days Ron's mother kept them all busy cleaning the house. Hermione found that she rather enjoyed it, the physical work made a change for her, and the constant sibling banter between Ron, Ginny and the twins made her laugh more than she could remember doing in ages. Seeing him interact with his family explained a lot about why Ron was like he was. He really did seem to bear the brunt of most of the twins' teasing, at least without Percy there to wind up instead. They were noticeably a lot more lenient on Ginny, possibly because she was a girl, or the youngest, or just a lot less fun to tease. Ron's sarcastic "our precious little sister" was starting to make a lot more sense now that she was spending so much time with them all. Of course, it was also that Ron seemed to take things to heart much more than the others did, and that just made it worse. Since they were guaranteed a reaction, they carried on prodding him.

As an only child, she wasn't quite sure how to react to the twins' teasing herself. Several times now she'd taken them completely seriously, and had been mortified when she eventually realised it was just a joke. Most of the time she knew when Ron was making a joke by the tone of his voice if not the actual content, but the twins were a different proposition entirely. She knew she had a reputation for being rather serious, and she didn't want them to think she was offended or upset by their teasing, but sometimes she just did not know how she should react. It was an odd feeling, to be included in this large, loud, boisterous family that was so different from her own. Ginny was becoming like the sister she'd never had and always wanted, the twins were like older brothers, and Ron - well, no, Ron wasn't at all like a brother. Harry was her substitute brother. Ron was just Ron.

There had been two more stroppy letters from Harry in the last week. He was obviously very frustrated at being shut up with the Dursleys, and she felt guilty for not wanting him to join them quite as much as she should. The physical work combined with the absence of Harry meant that she almost managed to forget about the war, and You Know Who, and Cedric's death, and was able to just enjoy herself and concentrate her mind on the job in hand. She would be glad to see him again of course, but at the same time getting to spend so much time with Ron, just messing about and having a laugh like normal teenagers should, had been wonderful. She would feel a distinct pang of regret when it was over.

One morning, she and Ron were given the task of cleaning one of the upstairs bedrooms. They'd removed and cleaned all the furniture from the room the day before, and now they were cleaning the empty room ready to put it all back in again. Ron had spent the last half an hour on his knees scrubbing the floor while she washed down the wallpaper with a damp sponge.

"Jesus," he grumbled, rolling his shoulders and looking pained, "This is the worst job in the _world_. My bloody back's _killing_ me."

"I know," agreed Hermione, "My arms are aching really badly as well."

"We should go on strike," said Ron, his eyes lighting up, "Tell Mum we won't do any more work until our demands are met!"

She laughed. "Yes, except we've got nothing to bargain with. If we withhold our labour, we just don't get fed."

Ron groaned. "Oh, God, you're right. We're not even being paid for this. God, this really sucks. Two bloody weeks I've been stuck in this house and I haven't seen daylight once. How does Sirius stand it? It must be like being in Azkaban all over again."

"Well, to be fair to your mum, the bits we have cleaned _are_ much nicer."

"Let's escape!" exclaimed Ron, suddenly.

She laughed. _"Escape?"_

"Yeah, why not? What's to stop us just walking out of the door? It's not like we're gonna go looking for Death Eaters, is it? We could just walk around the block and come back again. I bet no-one would even miss us."

She shook her head. "When _I_ tried to go outside, you practically wrestled me to the floor to stop me leaving, remember?"

"Yeah, well, that was different," mumbled Ron, flushing at the memory. "Anyway, we'd be together, wouldn't we? What's the worst that could happen?"

She felt herself grow warm all over. The idea of escaping together was rather thrilling. It would only be for half an hour, after all. What could happen to them in half an hour? But in the next instant, she remembered Ron's "Fred thinks we're an obvious target" and knew that it was impossible.

"We can't," she said, sadly. "It wouldn't be fair to your mum. She'd panic if you were missing, you know she would."

_"Fine," _sighed Ron, "Be sensible, then. I just thought you might like to get outside and see the sunshine, that's all."

"I would," she admitted, "But it's just too risky. I'm sorry. It was a good idea, though."

Ron gave a disbelieving snort of laughter. "Yeah, you're right; ideas aren't really my forte, are they? Maybe I should just stick to scrubbing floors and leave the ideas to people who know what they're talking about."

"It _was_ a good idea," she insisted, annoyed. Why did he always assume she was being sarcastic when she paid him a compliment?

"Yeah, if I wanted to get us both killed by Death Eaters," muttered Ron, darkly.

"I'd love to go for a walk with you!" she blurted out, then gasped and bit her lip, afraid that she had said too much.

Ron, however, seemed to assume she was just saying it to be nice. "I'd probably just get us lost, anyway. I've only ever seen the outside of this place in the dark." He shook his head. "I mean, I don't even know whereabouts in London we _are! _All these streets look the same to me."

"Well," she said fairly, "I suppose you're just not used to a lot of roads, that's all."

"I grew up in the _country_, not the fifteenth century," said Ron, scathingly. "I've been on _roads_ before."

She flushed. "I know, I didn't mean -"

But he buried his head in his hands and made a frustrated sound. "Oh, look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bite your head off. It's not you. I'm just... a bit fed up today, that's all."

He lifted his head again and looked at her. "It's this house, I swear, it's doing my head in. It's just, you know, not being able to go outside, and Fred and George are driving me mental, and Ginny's being a pain in the arse, and Mum's on my back all the time, and I haven't even _seen_ Dad in about three days because he's off doing God knows what for the Order, and there's all this business with Percy, and my best mate's really pissed off with me and oh _God_, tell me to shut up, _please!"_

She couldn't help laughing at this little tirade and he managed a rather embarrassed smile too. "Sorry. Seriously, though, I don't know what I'd do if you weren't here. Probably go nuts and challenge Kreacher to a duel or something."

She laughed, despite herself. "Don't you dare!"

"I don't know what you're defending him for, he'd _definitely_ win. I can't use magic 'til I'm seventeen, and he belongs to a family of dark wizards and probably knows loads of really dodgy spells. In fact, if you ever find me dead in my room, you'll know exactly where to find the culprit."

"He's _ill_, Ron!"

"He's not _ill_, he's just..." - he searched his brain for exactly the right word - "_Cracked_. Not that it's entirely his fault, mind. I mean, can you imagine what it must have been like growing up in this house? No wonder Sirius left home at sixteen. I bet he couldn't wait to leave; it's like living in a morgue."

He started laughing. "A morgue with really terrible wallpaper! You know, I'm not surprised his brother became a Death Eater. If I had to sleep in a room with this wallpaper in it, I'd want to kill people too."

She smiled. "I know. It's like the opposite of your house. This is all dark and depressing and cold, and your house is warm and bright and full of life."

Ron chuckled. "Full of _crap_, you mean."

She laughed. "Well, that's the one thing they do have in common, I'll give you that. I've only been in two wizarding houses, but they've both been… well, let's just say, not exactly minimalist."

"Mini-what?"

"Minimalist. It's a Muggle term. It means... er, how to explain… _neat_. Clean. No, that's not right, your house is always clean, I didn't mean that. Empty of stuff is probably a better way to put it. Usually it means the whole place is painted white or very pale colours."

Ron laughed. "Yeah, that's definitely a Muggle thing. I've been to a lot of wizarding houses and I've never seen one painted white. They all have a lot of stuff in them, too. Mind you, they've mostly been old family houses. I suppose if you lived on your own and didn't have much money you'd probably manage perfectly well with a bed and a chair. Well, _you_ wouldn't, obviously. You'd need thirty-two bookcases as well."

"Oh, at _least_," she joked, and they both laughed.

"So if I got expelled…" he began, "Could I -"

"Why would you get expelled?" she interrupted.

He pretended to consider. "I'm thinking it would probably involve violence, and Draco Malfoy's face."

She laughed out loud. "Oh, okay, carry on!"

He laughed too. "So, what, you think that's perfectly reasonable, do you?"

"Oh, absolutely! Although if I were Headmistress -"

"Oh, yeah, I can totally imagine you as Headmistress! Ha ha, you'd _love_ that! Bossing everyone around from your big office!"

"_If I were Headmistress_," she shouted over his laughter, "I wouldn't _expel_ you for punching Malfoy, I'd give you a Special Award for Services to the School!"

"Well, _yeah_… but you'd probably just be scared it would come out that you'd already punched him yourself 'cos you didn't want to get sacked…"

"I don't think anyone would sack me for punching Malfoy. Actually, I rather suspect there'd be a long queue of people behind me waiting their turn."

"Yeah, you could charge 'em. _'Roll up, roll up, throw a punch at Malfoy, only three Sickles!' _Oh, my God, you could make a _fortune! _Hey, Mum!" he pretended to call out into the hall, "I think I've finally decided what I want to do when I grow up!"

_"When?" _teased Hermione, "Don't you mean, _'if'_?"

"Har har," said Ron, dryly. "How old's that joke now?"

"Almost as old as some of yours," Hermione threw back.

He clutched his chest as though she'd delivered a mortal blow, and she laughed, then remembered something. "So you were going to tell me what you'd do if you got expelled...?"

"Oh, yeah! No, I was just gonna say; if I got expelled and couldn't get a job, could I come and live in your house and be, like, Guardian of the Books or something? I mean, you'd need someone to dust them every day, wouldn't you?"

Hermione pretended to consider. "Hmm… that's actually not a bad idea. You could wear a nice smart uniform and a little hat."

Ron raised his eyebrows at her. "A little _hat?"_

"Yes, a little peaked cap, like bus conductors wear." Inspiration suddenly struck her, and she bit back a laugh. "Or maybe… ha ha… a hairnet!"

Ron shot her a deathly glare, but the corners of his mouth were twitching with repressed laughter. "A hairnet?"

"Yes, so you don't moult over the books."

_"Moult? _I'm not a fucking _Alsatian!"_

"No, that's true," she said, mock-thoughtfully, "You're more like a big red Irish setter, aren't you?"

"Oh, thanks!" retorted Ron. "Well, in that case, with that hair, you're obviously a poodle!"

She put her hands on her hips in pretend indignation. "_Excuse_ me? A _poodle?"_

Ron was laughing so hard now he was practically doubled up, clutching at his ribs. "Oh, God, that's _exactly_ what you look like! A poodle! I can't believe I've never noticed the resemblance before! Ha ha ha!"

"Right!" shouted Hermione over his laughter, "You asked for it!", and she pretended to throw the wet sponge at him. Ron ducked automatically, then realised she hadn't thrown it, grabbed the brush from the floor beside him and pretended to throw it back at her.

She shrieked, and ducked herself, and this time did throw the sponge, which took Ron by surprise and hit him square in the chest, exploding dirty water all down his front and into his face. His shocked expression made her scream with laughter. He grabbed the sponge from the floor, jumped to his feet, and hurled it back at her before she had time to duck. It glanced off the side of her head, showering her with droplets of filthy water, and she squealed loudly.

"What in the name of _Merlin_ is going on here?"

Ron's mother was standing in the doorway, bearing a tray laden with two large steaming cups of tea and a small plate of shortbread biscuits, and red-faced with fury.

"You are supposed to be _cleaning_ this room, not making it _worse!"_

"Sorry, Mrs. Weasley," mumbled Hermione, meekly.

"Yeah, sorry, Mum," mumbled Ron, trying and failing to stifle his laughter. Hermione bit back a giggle. This did nothing to improve Molly's mood.

"And to think I thought you deserved a tea break after all your hard work! Minerva McGonagall even brought some shortbread for everyone. I can see I shouldn't have bothered!"

"We're really, really, sorry," said Ron, clearly alarmed by the possibility she might take the tea and biscuits away again. "It was all my fault. Hermione had nothing to do with it."

"I have no doubt about _that_," retorted his mother, crisply. "Honestly, you keep telling me not to treat you like children, but I can't even trust you to get on with one simple task without everything descending into chaos! I've already had to tell off Fred and George once this morning, I haven't got time to -"

"Have you?" asked Ron, eagerly, "Why? What did they do?"

"Never you mind!" she snapped back, "You just concentrate on your own work and don't start worrying about what everyone else is doing! And are you going to let me stand here holding this tray for the _entire_ morning?"

"Sorry," repeated Ron, quickly taking the tray from her hands and lowering it carefully to the floor. "Thanks, Mum."

"Yes, thank you," added Hermione, hastily, "We really do appreciate it."

"_Hmph," _said Molly, slightly placated. "Well… if I hear so much as a _squeak_ from this room, you will both be cleaning it all over again this afternoon. Do you hear me?"

They both murmured their assent, and with one last disapproving glare in her son's direction, she swept from the room.

"Oh, no!" moaned Hermione, burying her face in her hands, "I feel _awful! _She's been working so hard, and she's so worried about Percy, and -"

Ron crossed the room in a few long strides and closed the door firmly. "Oh, don't worry about it. She likes telling us off. It gives her a sense of purpose. For Christ's sake, it was only a wet sponge."

They caught each other's eye and started laughing again. There was just something inherently funny about the phrase 'wet sponge'.

"Don't!" protested Hermione, weakly, "She'll hear us!"

Ron gave an exaggerated sigh. "Fine! Let's have our tea and we can crack on with it again after. There's only an hour or so 'til lunch, anyway."

Hermione affected shock. "How can you possibly be thinking about lunch already? You only had breakfast an hour ago!"

He laughed, and she shook her head in disbelief."I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. I mean, we _are_ talking about someone who once ate an entire Easter egg in four minutes flat."

"Three and a _half_ minutes, if I remember rightly. Do you want some of this shortbread or not?"

"Alright, we can stop for five minutes, but afterwards we really need to get on with it. This room's not even half done. And let's swap. I'll do the floor and you can do the wallpaper."

"Fine," he agreed, "My knees could do with the rest." He threw her a sly smile. "Are you sure I can be trusted with a wet sponge, though?"

"I'm sure you can," she laughed. "I was the one who threw it, after all."

"Oh, that's _right!" _he exclaimed, clapping a hand to his forehead in pretend realisation, "So remind me, why did I tell her it was all my fault again?"

"I've no idea. You must have a guilty conscience, I suppose. Have you been doing anything else your Mum wouldn't be happy about?"

Ron chuckled. "Lots of things!"

She raised a quizzical eyebrow. "Oh, yes? Like what?"

"Nothing I'd tell _you,_" he retorted. "Come on, let's drink this before it goes cold."

For the next half an hour they worked in companionable silence, both lost in the work and their own thoughts. Washing down the wallpaper had seemed like the better part of the deal, but every time Ron sponged down a section of the wall higher than his own head, filthy luke-warm water trickled down his arms and soaked into his t-shirt until he felt as though he were wearing a wet dishrag. It was remarkably unpleasant work. Hermione, who had initially been happy to swap jobs, was finding the floor scrubbing just as unpleasant. You had to use both hands to keep a firm grip on the big wire scrubbing brush, and scrub as hard as you could to remove the decades of dirt ingrained there. Her hair, which was even more frizzy and unruly than usual with dirt and sweat, kept falling into her face, so she had to stop every few seconds and blow it out of her eyes. Not to mention that being crouched in the same position for so long was agonising for both her back and her knees.

"I can't quite believe…" she puffed, scrubbing hard at a particularly stubborn mark on the floor, "That I deliberately chose to come here and do this!"

"At least you had a _choice_," Ron retorted, wiping the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve. "You could have stayed at home all summer, put your feet up." He hesitated, then added, in what he obviously assumed was a light, couldn't-care-less tone of voice, "Or you could be in Bulgaria, sunning yourself on the beach."

Hermione allowed herself a small smile but did not look up from her scrubbing. Ron's ability to turn almost any conversation around to the subject of Viktor Krum was nothing if not impressive.

"Do they _have _beaches in Bulgaria?" he persisted.

"Yes, I think so," she said lightly, determined not to rise to the bait.

"Oh," said Ron.

She waited, knowing he was desperate to ask about Krum, but not wanting to make it easy for him. Finally, when it became apparent he wasn't going to say anything, she gave in with a sigh and told him, "Viktor lives in the mountains."

"His swimming pool, then. I bet he's got a swimming pool. He's the type," he added, with grim satisfaction, as though the owning of a swimming pool was a sure sign of deficiency of character.

Hermione said nothing.

"_Has_ he got a swimming pool?"

"I've absolutely no idea. Does it matter?"

Ron huffed and turned back to the wall, muttering something under his breath that sounded rather like "cock".

She stared at the back of his head for a few moments, annoyed. Sometimes he could be so sulky and immature, she wondered why she even liked him.

_"Viktor," _she told him, returning to scrubbing the floor with much fury, "Is a very nice boy, actually. Nice people sometimes have money too, you know, it's not just the Malfoys of this world. You can't go around not liking someone just because he's got a swimming pool."

She paused, leaving a space for him to protest that wasn't the reason he didn't like Viktor, but he didn't say anything, and she carried on, now even more furious.

"I mean, Harry's got money, and my parents are reasonably well-off, and you don't dislike us, do you? It's just reverse snobbery, Ron, it's no better than Malfoy looking down on you because your family are - well, not rich. Don't you think so, Ron?"

No answer.

She raised her head to see that Ron had stopped working and was just standing there looking at her with a glazed expression on his face, clutching the sponge so tightly that a small puddle of dirty water was forming at his feet.

"Ron?" she repeated, suddenly afraid that she might have really offended him.

"Mm," said Ron, patently not even listening, "Yeah."

She followed the line of his gaze downwards and realised with horror that from that angle he must be able to see right down her top. Flustered and shocked, she sat hurriedly back on her haunches, her heart pounding and her face burning with humiliation.

"_Ron!"_

He gave a guilty start and dragged his eyes back up to her face again. _"_Sorry, what? Did you say something?"

"Are you going to just stand there looking gormless all day, or are you actually going to do some _work _for a change?"

He gaped at her, not sure if she was being serious. Where had all this come from?

"I mean, for heaven's sake, you heard your mum, if we don't get this finished this morning, we'll be back doing it again this afternoon! I don't know about you, but _I _don't want to spend another afternoon on my hands and knees scrubbing floors!"

"Al_right!"_ he retorted, angrily, turning back to the wall and starting to sponge it roughly, "I'm _doing_ it, aren't I? Jesus, I get enough nagging from my mum, I don't need _you _on my case as well…"

"I am _not_ nagging you!" Hermione shrieked back, her whole face now crimson with fury, "I just don't think it's fair that the rest of us have to do twice as much work because you're too lazy to do it properly! _And_ you didn't even start until an hour after everyone else did because you were having a lie-in! _Again!"_

"I'm on _holiday!"_ Ron bellowed back, furiously, "Anyway, who do you think spent four whole days last week scrubbing the bloody kitchen while you were at home with Mummy and Daddy reading books in your lovely big garden in the sunshine?"

"Just because you did a couple of hours of work _last_ week, doesn't give you an excuse to skive off for the rest of the holidays! Fred and George and Ginny all helped you clean the kitchen last week and I don't see _them_ taking about three hours just to scrub one wall!"

"Yeah? Well... _fine_, if that's what you think! I tell you what, if I'm so crap at it, why don't _you_ bloody do it? I'm sure you'll do a _much_ better job!"

And he hurled the sponge to the floor and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him with such force that the walls seemed to shake.

* * *

That afternoon, after a rather tense lunch where the only words exchanged between them were a stiff, "Could you pass the salad bowl, please, Ronald?" from Hermione, and a sarcastic, "Are you sure I won't drop it?" from Ron, Mrs. Weasley decided to split them up. Initially Ginny and Hermione were supposed to be washing curtains in the big kitchen sink, and the boys were supposed to be dusting the rooms on the top floor, but Ginny kicked up such a big fuss about being made to do "women's work" that Molly relented and let them swap jobs. Ron was, to say the least, not very happy about this. Since the twins were now of age and legally allowed to use magic at home, they finished their share of the cleaning in about ten seconds flat and promptly disappeared off to their room, leaving him to do the rest of it by hand. He spent the next two hours up to his elbows in scalding, dirty water, working through a seemingly endless pile of filthy curtains that hadn't been washed in over a decade, and probably had spiders living in them, too.

Filthy, wet through, and thoroughly pissed off, he finally decided enough was enough and went in search of the others, determined to complain bitterly about his bad lot. Muttering under his breath and feeling very hard done by, he stomped up the stairs to the top floor, where he found Hermione, with her back to him, halfway up a ladder. She was balanced rather precariously on one foot, stretching out as far as she could in a fruitless attempt to reach the ceiling with her duster.

Ron hesitated in the doorway, wondering if he could make a quick escape before she turned around and realised he was there, but it was too late, she'd heard him.

"Ginny? Is that you? Can you hold the ladder for me? I can't quite reach."

He looked quickly left and right along the corridor, but Ginny was nowhere in sight.

"Ginny?"

"Er… it's not Ginny, it's Ron. I can get her, if you want."

"Oh. Well, that's okay. Would you mind holding the ladder for a few minutes? This house has very high ceilings."

"Um…"

"Or would you rather I fell off and broke my leg?" she snapped, firing up.

"No, of course not, it's just -"

"Just _what? _I'm asking you to hold a _ladder_, Ron, it's not rocket science!"

_Are you sure you trust me enough to be able to hold a ladder without fucking it up? _he thought, petulantly, but didn't say it out loud.

"Well…" he began, not wanting to give in without some sort of a fight, "You're cleaning the spider webs, aren't you? What if there are dead ones up there?"

"I thought you didn't mind the dead ones. You said it was only the live ones you were scared of because you don't like the way they move."

"I'm not _scared _of them!" Ron retorted hotly, "And even if the dead ones aren't as bad, it still doesn't mean I want you dropping any on my head!"

"Well, I'll just have to be extra careful then, won't I?"

_"Fine," _he sighed, realising he wasn't going to be able to get out of this. "But you get a spider anywhere _near _me, and you can finish the rest of the room on your own. I mean it."

So then, of course, his face was about level with her arse. There wasn't anywhere else he could look, so he simply screwed his eyes tightly shut, gripped the ladder as hard as he could, and tried to make his mind go blank until it was all over.

Hermione wanted to die with embarrassment. She hadn't thought this through at _all. _And now she was stuck here in this ridiculous position, and he was so close behind her she could almost _feel _him. She could see his hands gripping either side of the ladder down by her knees and knew that her bottom must be practically at eye level. She was so flustered she couldn't speak. Ron was remarkably quiet back there too. She suspected he was still angry with her from that morning. She'd overreacted, she saw that now. Well, she'd known it even while she was still shouting at him, but somehow hadn't been able to stop herself, caught up in her own confused emotions. She was self-aware enough to know that Ron's inability to get out of bed before midday wasn't really the issue here. He could stay in bed all day if he wanted to, what did she care? It was the summer holidays! And besides, the twins weren't much better, always disappearing off to work on their "secret project" in their room.

She gave an inward sigh. It was spending all this time so close to him that was making her so darn _confused _all the time. And then, this morning… She wasn't sure how she should feel about that. It was good that he had noticed her, wasn't it? Hadn't she been waiting for him to notice her for months? He _definitely_ knew she was a girl now. But at the same time, to catch him staring at her so openly like that… well, it was confusing, that was all. It made her feel angry and excited and embarrassed and ashamed and a lot of other things she didn't even have a name for yet.

"How's the curtain washing going?" she asked, desperately hoping conversation would make the time pass quicker and the whole situation seem rather more normal.

Ron made a noncommittal noise in his throat.

"I hope the twins are behaving themselves."

"Mm."

"Have you seen Ginny? She was here a minute ago."

Ron shook his head, then realised she couldn't see him, and muttered, "Nope."

"Honestly," she went on, with a nervous laugh, "I don't think anyone's dusted this room in well over ten years. I've never _seen_ so many cobwebs! I mean, just look at the state of this duster!"

"Yeah," he mumbled, opening his eyes to look, seeing her bottom at close view, and immediately screwing them shut again in horror, "Disgusting."

There was a long silence.

"You're very quiet," she observed.

"Am I?" he said, faintly.

Hermione frowned. He was obviously still annoyed with her from earlier. She felt she should apologise for shouting at him, but doing so would mean explaining the real reason she had been so upset, and that was not a conversation she wanted to have any time soon.

_The way you were looking at me, it made me feel - _

_The thing is, Ron, I - _

_Why can't you just admit - _

No. She would just pretend that nothing had happened, and with any luck he would do the same. That was the way they usually got over their arguments, after all.

"It's fine," Ron croaked, realising she might think he was sulking, "It's just -"

"Oh, sorry!" she exclaimed, "The spiders!" She started laughing, mostly with relief. "You can close your eyes if it helps!"

"Thanks," said Ron, dryly. Thank Merlin for his arachnophobia. Let her think that was the reason he'd lost the ability to form complete sentences, not because the sight of her arse at such close quarters was doing things to him that made him very glad she was facing the other way.

He could feel movement above him and her weight shift on the ladder, and the urge to open his eyes and look became almost overwhelming.

_Don't open your eyes, don't open your eyes, don't open -_

Someone cleared their throat quietly behind him, and Ron spun around to see Fred standing in the doorway, his eyes dancing with laughter.

"Enjoying the view there, Ronniekins?" he mouthed.

Ron let go of the ladder to make a rude gesture at his brother, and it gave a dangerous wobble.

_"Ron!"_ snapped Hermione, "Hold still!"

"Yes, Ron," said Fred, trying and failing to keep a straight face, "_Do_ try and concentrate on the job in hand."

He went on his way, still laughing, and Ron turned back to the ladder, gripping it hard, his face burning with fury and humiliation.

"Was that Fred?" asked Hermione.

"Uh-huh."

"What did he want?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

"Just to take the piss as usual."

"You shouldn't let him get to you, you know," she scolded.

Ron bit back a sarcastic retort. Easy for _her_ to say. He closed his eyes again and tried to distract himself from the vision in front of him by listing last season's Cannons matches, in order of play.

_Cannons vs. Montrose Magpies, home match. Debut appearance of new Cannons signing Rory Cameron, who scored eight of the Cannons goals, thus giving them their first win of the new season by the narrow margin of only ten points, and installing in the fans an optimism about the season ahead which turned out to be severely misplaced._

_Cannons vs. Puddlemere United, away match. After a poor previous season which saw them finish bottom of the League, Puddlemere started this match with an entirely new line-up. They were ahead for most of the match, then the Cannons pulled in front for all of two minutes before Puddlemere's new Seeker caught the Snitch, leading to the first of what turned out to be a ten match run of defeats for the Cannons. _

_Cannons vs. Tutshill Tornados, home -_

Movement above him made his eyes snap open again. Hermione was now stretching out her body as far as she could to reach the corner of the ceiling, and her t-shirt had ridden up a little at the back, revealing a couple of inches of bare skin.

The sight made his head swim, and he gripped the ladder still harder for support.

He was so close that his breath stirred the fine little hairs in the soft hollow at the base of her back. So close he could just lean up a little way and press his mouth to her skin and - he ran his tongue along his suddenly very dry lips - oh God, _taste_ her...

He swallowed hard a couple of times and looked away again, down at his shoes, feeling as though if he wasn't holding the ladder, he might actually faint.

_Cannons vs. Tornados, home match. Fetteridge took a Bludger to the head five minutes in and the Tornados played the rest of the match with only six men, still won 340 - 80. _

_Cannons vs. Falmouth Falcons, away match. Local derby so a bit of crowd violence delayed the start of the match by half an hour, Perkins got sent off for a blatant foul on Hegarty right in front of the referee, final score Cannons 40, Falcons - _

_Fuck_.

It was no good. How could he be expected to concentrate on anything with _that _in his face?

"Hermione," he rasped, "Have you nearly finished or what?"

"Why?" she asked, sarcastically, "Holding the ladder too strenuous for you? I'll swap, if you like. You've got longer arms than me, anyway."

"Fine," he snapped back, "Get down and _I'll _bloody do it. I'm doing everybody else's sodding work already, so I might as well."

"I've nearly finished now, anyway. Hold _still! _My God, I've never know anyone who fidgets as much as you do!"

She gingerly took a step backwards, and he immediately let go of the ladder and sprinted for the door.

"Where are you going?" she called after him, annoyed. "You could at least wait until I'm off the ladder!"

"Need the loo!" he shouted over his shoulder. Actually, what he _really_ needed was a very long, very cold shower - about two days long should do it - but that would have to wait.

When he emerged from the bathroom a few minutes later, Hermione was hovering in the corridor apparently waiting for him.

"Were you waiting outside?" he demanded, a little too aggressively.

"_No," _she retorted, "I've just put the ladder away and now I want to wash my hands. Is that okay with you?"

She pushed past him irritably.

Ron hovered uncertainly in the doorway while she washed her hands in the sink.

She glanced at him and frowned. "You're very dirty."

"What?" he croaked.

"Well, look at you! Honestly, you'd think you'd been _bathing_ in soot, not trying to clean it up. You're absolutely filthy!"

_Oh, you have no idea._

"Ron!"

"What?"

"Are you even listening to me?"

"Yeah!" protested Ron, indignantly, 'Course I am!"

Hermione shook her head. "I think I'll go and have a bath. What time's dinner, do you know?"

Ron shrugged. "About seven, I think. Dunno."

"Does your mum have any spare towels, do you know? Mine's still drying from this morning."

Ron stared back at her in slack-jawed blankness. All the synapses in his brain were suddenly firing at once.

Towels. Hermione. Bath. Wet. Naked. Hermione. Damp towel. Naked Hermione. Wet, soapy tits. Oh, _fuck!_

_"Ron!" _she snapped, and he blinked. _"Towels!"_

"What? Oh, yeah. Sorry. Linen cupboard on the landing next to the bathroom."

She shook her head in exasperation. "Honestly, Ronald. Sometimes I wonder what planet you're on."

She walked away down the corridor and Ron watched her go, with a new-found appreciation for the back view.

"Planet thinking about tits," he muttered ironically, then turned and hurried off to his room as fast as he could.

* * *

An hour later he was sitting at the dinner table with the others when Hermione arrived, her hair still slightly damp from her bath. He'd had a bath right after her - Christ knows he needed one, she was right, he was absolutely filthy - and he couldn't help thinking how she'd been sitting in it just minutes before, all wet and naked and wet and...

She was talking to Ginny and Tonks across the table and they were all laughing about something. His gaze automatically dropped downwards to her chest. Oh, God. There was a definite... _wobble. _Merlin, the way they _moved! _They were like - like - his mind had gone blank again. There was just her, and he couldn't think of the – the – the - _words!_ Just Hermione. Tits. Hermione. Tits. Hermione. Couldn't - what was - _shit! _

He looked away quickly, feeling as though his entire face was on fire, and instantly realised that he wouldn't be able to get up from the table for at least the next few minutes. Across the table he heard her laugh again and looked up. Her mouth was open and her head thrown back in laughter. He wondered what her lips would feel like around his -

"Would you like any more potatoes, dear?"

"No, thanks," he muttered, hurriedly shoving the last forkful of chicken pie in his mouth.

"There's trifle for pudding," his mother beamed, patting his head fondly.

He forced a smile. "Great!"

_Jesus. _This was hideous. What the hell was he going to do when Harry got here and he had to share a bedroom with somebody else again? He'd practically have to lock himself in the bathroom all day at this rate. And even that didn't guarantee privacy now his brothers could Apparate anywhere they wanted. On the first day of the holidays, he'd nearly had a heart attack when Fred (or possibly George, he hadn't seen their face) had Apparated into the bathroom while Ron was in the shower, shouted, "Stop doing that, you filthy boy!" (He wasn't even doing anything!) and then DisApparated back out into the hall, laughing fit to burst. Yeah, that had been hilarious all right. It was things like that that made him sometimes wish he was an only child. Worse, instead of telling them off properly, his mum had just laughed and told him he was overreacting. She wouldn't think it was so funny if it was Ginny they'd done it to. Or Hermione. Oh, great. And now he was thinking about Hermione in the bath again.

He glanced across at her again, just as she turned her head, saw him looking at her, and smiled at him. His insides wriggled, and he gave her a sickly smile back, then looked away quickly, his heart thumping in his chest. God, he was disgusting. She was just giving him a friendly smile, and the whole time he was just picturing what she'd look like naked. Well, not _entirely_ naked. Just topless. The rest of it… _her_… was still a little too far for him to imagine, or even _want_ to imagine. Every time his thoughts wandered in that direction it made him feel all hot and dizzy and weird, and slightly like he might throw up, a bit like that time he fell asleep in Granddad Weasley's back garden and got sunstroke.

God, this morning! She'd been on her hands and knees in front of him, scrubbing away, and he'd had a glorious view right down her top. There had been... well, _bouncing_... For about ten seconds he'd practically stopped breathing and just stared, open-mouthed and probably dribbling. If she hadn't started having a go at him about slacking off, he might have been caught out. He was going to have to be more careful from now on, try not to be so blatant about it. Yeah, easy enough to _say_. Much harder to not look when she was swanning around the bloody house all the time climbing ladders and scrubbing floors and bending over things and talking about damp towels and being just bloody well _there_, making him think bad thoughts, making things stir that shouldn't, especially when his mum was in the room.

Oh, sod it, maybe he should just _ask_ her. Maybe she wouldn't even mind that much.

_"Oh, come on, Hermione, I only want to see your tits!" _

Yeah, she wouldn't mind that, would she? It was a perfectly reasonable request, wasn't it?

_"Or if you don't want to show them to me, how about you just let me cop a quick feel?" _

He choked on a laugh. Yeah, that would go down _really_ well. She'd smack him into the middle of next week if she could see what was going on in his head. That punch she'd given Draco Malfoy would look like a light slap. Worse, she'd more than likely never speak to him again. The smile died on his face. Was it normal to be thinking about your best friend's tits all the time? He could hardly ask Harry. No, scratch that, he didn't _want_ to ask Harry. Because if it turned out Harry had been thinking about her tits as well, Ron was going to have to punch him, and that wasn't going to be pretty. Not to mention rather hard to explain. No, it definitely wasn't normal. There must be something wrong with him.

Sometimes when she was near he would get an irresistible urge to just reach out and _touch_. Something about the shape of tits (and even the _word_ made his entire face heat up) just seemed to invite you to cup your hand over them, like they'd been designed for exactly that purpose. It was like an itch, almost. Of course, his chances of ever getting to touch or even _see_ Hermione's tits - or anyone else's, let's face it - were approximately nil, so he was forced to keep his hands busy in other ways. He wondered what they would feel like. Seamus had tried to explain, to Ron and Neville's open-mouthed awe, but his rambling "Well, they're really soft... like the softest thing you can possibly imagine… but kind of firm as well… surprisingly heavy, actually… well, not always heavy… not if they're small ones, obviously…" had not been in any way helpful. It was clearly something you needed to experience for yourself. And anyway, after a barrage of questions it transpired that Seamus had actually only managed to cop a feel over the girl's jumper after two ciders, around the back of the church youth club disco, so even he couldn't enlighten his awestruck friends on what breasts _really_ felt like. Ron and Neville had exchanged disappointed glances and trudged off to their lessons, still none the wiser.

Still, it wasn't his fault Hermione's arrival was making him so hot and bothered. For the past week the only women in the house had been his mother and sister (which would be _sick, _obviously), McGonagall (just plain wrong on several levels), and Tonks, who was at least nearer to his own age and was pretty well stacked in the chest department. But her visits were fleeting, and she often wore loose robes, which didn't exactly show off her chest to the best advantage. But now Hermione was here, wearing a thin summer t-shirt which he could see the outline of her bra through, and her tits were just… _there_, practically _inviting_ him to look at them. He was having to mentally slap himself a lot lately. He kept catching himself staring at them, fascinated, unable to drag his gaze away from the wonderful sight, like they were the Pyramids at bloody sunset or something. She wasn't as, uh, _well-developed _as Tonks, but tits were tits, and Hermione's had the advantage of having the rest of her attached to them. And that was another problem entirely.

He'd been denying it all year, hoping that maybe it was just because she was the nearest girl to him, and eventually he'd get over it and stop thinking about his best friend's boobs. But six months on and he was starting to realise that maybe there was another reason he felt such a deep and irrational hatred for Viktor Krum, not just because he was Harry's rival in the Tri-Wizard competition. That actually he didn't give a flying toss about Krum being Harry's rival, but the thought of him with his massive hairy hand on Hermione's perfectly-formed arse made Ron want to break something. Like Krum's face. And both his legs. And every other bone in his body. That maybe - oh, who was he kidding, there was no maybe about it - he would like to be more than just friends with her, even if the chances of someone like _her_ being interested in someone like _him _seemed, to say the least, slim. Especially when she could get a Viktor Krum instead.

But then, he suddenly thought, a thrill of possibility coursing through him, Krum wasn't around anymore, was he? He was hundreds of miles away, and being on the Bulgarian Quidditch team was bound to keep him busy. Too busy to keep popping over to England every five minutes. And it didn't look as though Hermione was going to Bulgaria, so maybe… maybe there _was_ a chance, after all?

"Yeah, _right," _he thought, bitterly. "In your dreams, Weasley. She'd only be interested in you if you were built like a broom shed, had arms like tree trunks and a stupid foreign accent, and were the fastest person in the world on a broom."

Well, he couldn't do anything about the accent, or being long and skinny rather than all muscles, like Krum, but he _could_ play Quidditch. He wasn't bad either. Not great, but not terrible. Maybe if she got to see him play…

The germ of an idea started to form in his head. Oliver Wood had left at the end of last year, so Gryffindor would need a new Keeper. Ron could be a Keeper. He'd Kept for Fred and George for years, after all. Okay, it wasn't exactly the position on the team that got all the glory, unlike Seeker, but what else could he do? What else was he good at? Nothing. Well, chess, but a talent for board games was hardly likely to attract a girl's attention. Maybe if he could get on the House team, she might finally start to look at him as something more than just her idiot best friend.

No, it was a stupid idea. There were bound to be loads of people who were better than him. And anyway, he didn't have a broom. They were hardly likely to let someone on the team who didn't even have their own _broom_, were they? Imagine having to fly on one of the _school_ brooms! He gave an involuntary shudder. Those things could barely fly in a straight line. If you managed to get above about ten miles an hour, you were doing well. Jesus, he might as well give Malfoy the rope to hang him with.

If only his birthday was in the summer, like Harry's! Not that it would make any difference, of course. He could save up for his next _ten_ birthdays and he still wouldn't be able to afford to buy himself a decent broom. Brooms were expensive. _Good_ brooms were _really_ expensive. Harry could probably buy a hundred new brooms and not even notice, he thought, bitterly. He remembered Malfoy's sarcastic little dig when he'd seen Harry's brand new top-of-the-range Firebolt: "You couldn't even afford the _handle_, Weasley. Don't you and your brothers have to save up, twig by twig?" _Wanker._ That would be another reason to get on the team, the chance to beat Malfoy. Cocky little git, thought he was God's gift to Quidditch just because his Daddy could afford to buy him a place on the team. Yeah, that would definitely make it all worthwhile, the look on Malfoy's annoying little face when Ron had _beaten_ him.

But with no broom and no hope of getting one, what was the point in even _trying?_ He glanced across at her and gloom descended upon him once more. She was never going to fancy _him_. It was ridiculous to even hope. He'd just be wasting his time.

"Trifle?"

"Wha - oh, yeah, please. Thanks, Mum."

Maybe he could borrow one of the school brooms, just to get some practice in, when they were back at school. He wouldn't need to tell anyone he was trying out for the team. Fred and George would only take the piss out of him anyway. And then, in the unlikely event he actually _did_ make Keeper, he could write to his parents and beg them for a new one. It could be his Christmas and birthday presents combined. Yeah, for the rest of my _life_, he thought, bitterly. What he needed was a summer job, so he could earn some money of his own and not have to rely on his parents all the time. Well, there was no chance of that this year, with everyone locked up at Grimmauld Place. Maybe he could try out for Keeper in sixth year instead. Jesus, a whole _year!_ He couldn't wait a year. Hermione might have met someone else by then.

A jolt went through him. Was he just doing this to impress Hermione? No, of course not. No, he was doing it because he _wanted_ to, that was all. Because it would be nice to actually be _good _at something for a change, instead of just basically mediocre at everything. Yeah, that'd be his epitaph, all right. Ron Weasley: basically mediocre. Fuck. There was no way this was going to happen. No chance to practice over the summer, no broom of his own, no way of getting the money to buy one, and not a hope in hell of making the team.

Maybe he could borrow a ball from somewhere? There must be one somewhere in this house; two boys had once lived in it, after all. He would ask Sirius tomorrow. He didn't have to tell him why he wanted it. And Sirius, more than anyone, would understand what it was like to be shut up in this house for a summer, fifteen and restless and bored out of your skull, when you'd rather be outside in the sunshine. A fortnight in this house already felt like months. Harry might complain about being forced to spend the summer with the Dursleys but at least he could go outside and breathe fresh air and feel the sun on his face. September couldn't come soon enough as far as Ron was concerned. He couldn't get wait to get out there on a broom again and have a good fly, feel the wind in his hair. Even if it had to be one of the crappy school brooms, and even if Malfoy took the piss out of him _forever_.

Yes, he decided, he would do it. He would try for the team. He wouldn't say anything, though, not even to Harry. He didn't want anyone knowing about his plan just yet. Better they didn't expect anything, then, when he didn't get on the team, it wouldn't be such a big deal. To _them_, anyway. The more he thought about it the more he realised how much he wanted it, with an almost desperate longing. Oh, who was he kidding? Of _course_ he was doing this to impress Hermione. Jesus, it wasn't like he was ever going to impress her with his top marks in Potions. This was his one chance to impress her, and if he didn't make it, if he wasn't good enough, then he wasn't good enough for _her_, either. If he didn't make the team… well, he would just give up, that was all. Go back to staring at her from the sidelines, where he obviously belonged. Talking of which…

He watched her across the table, laughing at something with his sister. She had a nice laugh, he thought. His gaze drifted inevitably downwards. She had nice lots of things. Damn. Look away, for God's sake, what's the matter with you? One of these days she'll catch you looking, and then what will happen? Everything will be ruined forever, and it will all be your fault. Just eat your bloody trifle and don't look up. Ever again.

* * *

It had been a long and tiring day and everyone was in bed by ten. Hermione lay there listening to the gentle sound of Ginny's breathing, unable to stop her mind from wandering upstairs to Ron's room above theirs. She wondered if he was still awake. Every so often she heard the creak of a floorboard overhead and assumed he must be still up and about. Making a decision, she threw back the covers, swung her legs off the bed, and tiptoed carefully across the room, slipping her feet carefully into her fluffy slippers and pulling on her dressing gown, before slipping silently from the room. She crept upstairs, trying not to step on any creaking stairs as she did so.

There was a narrow strip of light showing under Ron's door.

She rapped lightly on the door. "Ron?" she whispered loudly, "Are you awake?"

_"Don't come in!" _a panicky voice shouted.

"I wasn't going to. Are you decent?"

No answer.

"Ron?"

_"Hang on!"_

"OK."

After what seemed like ages, the door was finally wrenched open and Ron stood there in an old navy blue t-shirt and maroon checked pyjama trousers, looking rather flushed.

"What do you want?" he asked, roughly.

"Are you busy?"

"Nope," he said, shortly. "What do you want?"

"Can I come in? I couldn't sleep."

He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged and held the door open for her.

She wasn't sure where she should sit. On Harry's bed was probably the obvious place, but her eyes were inextricably drawn back to Ron's. His bedclothes were messed up and the quilt thrown back where he had obviously got out of bed to answer the door. For a brief moment she imagined herself walking over there, slipping off her dressing gown and getting between the covers. The sheets would probably still be warm from his body. Oh, _God_.

The sound of him drawing the bolt across startled her out of her reverie.

"Sorry," he muttered, seeing her glance nervously at the locked door, "I don't want Kreacher to come in, that's all."

"Oh. Of course."

They both stood there uncertainly, waiting to see where the other one sat before sitting down themselves, and exchanged small, tight smiles.

He started gnawing tensely at his fingernails and Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye, fascinated. His fingers were long and slender and she wondered what his hands would feel like on her skin.

"So what was that thumping sound?" she asked, hurriedly.

Ron coloured. "Wh-what thumping sound?" he stammered.

"About half an hour ago. I heard it through the ceiling. I wondered what you were doing."

"Oh, _that!"_ he exclaimed, incredibly relieved, "I was playing catch with an apple." He picked up the now very bruised apple from the bedside table and showed it to her. "See?"

"You were playing catch with an apple?" she repeated, frowning, as though he'd said he was playing leapfrog with a giant turtle or something equally as ridiculous.

Ron shrugged. "I was bored," he told her, not really wanting to go into the whole practicing-to-get-on-the-Quidditch-team thing just yet, "And I couldn't sleep, so…"

"_Okaaay_," she said, still not sounding convinced.

"I imagine the thumping would have been me dropping it," he added, dryly. Yeah, that boded well for his future career as Keeper, didn't it? He couldn't even catch a ball he'd thrown _himself._

She nodded, and seemed to accept his explanation, for which he was mightily relieved. And it was true, he _had_ been playing catch. For about five minutes, anyway. And then he'd got bored of that – well, there was a limit to how useful it was, unless the opposing team's Chasers could promise to only try and score from a position about three foot above his head - and spent the last twenty minutes playing with something _else_ instead. Thank fuck he'd remembered to bolt the door!

She noticed his bare feet and frowned. "What happened to your slippers?"

"What? Oh. Grew out of them." He chuckled. "_Again_."

She didn't laugh, and the smile gradually slipped off Ron's face.

"I just haven't got around to asking for some new ones yet, that's all."

"Well, you should," she said, sternly. "The floorboards in this house are absolutely _riven _with nails. You ought to know that after spending half the morning cleaning them."

Ron bit back the retort that if she'd just come up here to nag him about his slippers, she could sod off. He didn't want to have another row with her, especially after this morning. He still wasn't entirely sure what he'd done to make her so angry. Maybe she was just fed up with him. Maybe she wished she'd stayed at home with her parents instead, or taken Krum up on his offer. After all, who wouldn't rather spend the holidays at Krum's mansion in the mountains, swimming pool or no swimming pool, than stuck here in this dump cleaning floors with Ron all summer? Not only did he not have a swimming pool (or a mansion, or a broom) but he didn't even have a pair of sodding slippers that fit him properly. Krum probably wore slippers made from _dragon skin_. Git.

"It's not my fault," he joked, weakly, "I'm a growing boy."

Hermione couldn't help herself. She gave him the swiftest glance up and down, then looked quickly away again, her face burning. She shouldn't have looked. _Why did she look? _It was bad enough that she was even here, alone with Ron in his bedroom in the middle of the night, especially after what had happened this morning. The memory made her feel hot and strange, just as it had every one of the myriad times she had replayed the incident over the last few hours. She should leave now before – well, she should just leave now.

Ron watched her, frowning. She seemed rather tense tonight. All his jokes were falling flat. Mind you, he was feeling rather tense himself, not to mention somewhat exposed in his thin pyjama trousers. Any unexpected… _movement_… and there was nowhere for him to hide. He quickly crossed the room and got back into bed, pulling his knees up to his chest and the bedclothes up to his chin.

Hermione hesitated, then went and perched awkwardly on the end of his bed, as far away from him as she could. There was a very long, very loaded silence. Both of them were intensely aware of the close proximity of the other, and that being on a bed together like this had a whole new implication that hadn't been there when, aged twelve, they'd first sat on Ron's dormitory bed at school and talked about their families.

"Do you think Harry's alright in Surrey?" she asked, eventually.

"I'm sure he is," said Ron, stiffly. So that was what was keeping her awake, was it? Bloody Harry. He wasn't even here and yet the subject of him still dominated their conversations. Ron could fall under a bus and she probably wouldn't even notice: _"Oh, no, Harry, did you get some of Ron's blood on you?" _

Hermione nodded, uncertainly. She was pretty sure Harry was fine, too, but it was just the first thing that had come into her head. It was a lot easier to talk about Harry than it was to talk about what she'd privately begun to refer to as "the Ron situation".

"Tonks is nice, isn't she?" she said, casting around for another neutral topic of conversation, "She's really funny, too."

"Mm," said Ron, trying not to think about what she was wearing under the dressing gown. Some sort of little top and no bra, probably. _No bra! _

There was a short silence. She felt his eyes upon her, and pulled her dressing gown a little tighter around her body, suddenly very much aware of the single thin layer of nightwear she was wearing underneath.

"So..." began Ron, trying for an airy tone but not quite managing it, "How come you're not going to Bulgaria to visit Krum, then?"

She glanced up but couldn't quite see his expression in the dim light of the room.

"Well..." she began, choosing her words carefully, "I'm not sure I really know him well enough yet. Bulgaria _is_ a long way away, after all."

_Yet_, thought Ron.

"Right," he said, sceptically. "So what did he say, when you told him you weren't going?"

"I don't know," she admitted, "He hasn't replied to my letter yet."

"Maybe he's sulking," said Ron, with rather too much satisfaction in his voice.

"More likely he's just sent a reply to my parents' house, since that's where he thinks I am."

"Oh," said Ron, sourly, "Yeah, I suppose that would make sense."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again. She wanted to ask him, "Why don't you _really_ like Viktor, Ron?"

"Ron -"

He glanced up expectantly, their eyes met, and she knew she would not ask. This was not the moment. He wasn't ready. More to the point, _she_ wasn't ready, either. Her reaction this morning had proved that beyond all doubt.

What if he tried to kiss her? Or even - her skin tingled at the very thought - _touch_ her? She wanted him to - sometimes with a longing so all-consuming it frightened her - but what if she freaked out or shouted at him again? She might scare him off for good. It would ruin everything. And then, what if _she_ tried to kiss _him_ and he backed away? The humiliation and disappointment would be more than she could stand.

But what if he _didn't_ back away, and what if she didn't either? They were alone on Ron's bed in the middle of the night. A kiss might lead to anything.

_I should go_, she told herself, but still couldn't bring herself to move.

Besides, what if she was wrong? Their friendship was too important to risk, especially as they were shut up together in this house for the rest of the summer. If anything went wrong it would be _unbearable_. Anyway, Harry would be here soon. He'd be bound to notice if there was any awkwardness. It wasn't fair to expect him to cope with an arguing Ron and Hermione on top of everything else he'd been through. Yes, that was the only thing to do. She would just wait, that was all. It wasn't the right time yet. Maybe when they went back to school he would finally pluck up the courage and _do_ something, instead of just making sarky little comments about Viktor all the time. All she had to do was get through the next few weeks and then -

_"What?" _repeated Ron, impatiently.

She glanced up at him, flustered. "What?"

He threw his arms up in the air in frustration. "What do you mean, _'What?' _You said _'Ron' _and then you didn't say anything else! What were you going to say?"

"Oh," she said, reddening, "Nothing."

"No, go on. What were you going to say?"

"I've forgotten," she mumbled, feeling as though her face were on fire.

"Alright," he said, throwing her a look as though he didn't believe her for a second. He continued to watch her, frowning.

"So, er, I don't suppose you'll be seeing him much next year, then? I mean, he's left school now, so he'll be busy with the Quidditch full time, won't he?"

"Mm. I expect so, yes."

"Maybe he'll invite you to come and watch him play," he persisted.

"I shouldn't think so. Bulgaria's rather a long way to go just to watch a Quidditch match."

"Yeah," nodded Ron, happily, "It is, isn't it?"

"Anyway," she went on, hiding her smile, "I'll be very busy myself this year."

Ron frowned. "Will you?"

"Yes, and so will you."

He continued to look blank.

She laughed. "It's OWL year, remember? I don't imagine any of us will have much free time with all that studying to do."

"Oh, yeah," said Ron, gloomily, "I'd forgotten about that. _Great_."

"You'll need to knuckle down and get some serious studying done yourself, you know."

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yeah, _thanks_. You sound like my mum." He stifled a yawn. "Probably f-f-fail them all, anyway."

"Don't say things like that," she scolded, "I'm sure you'll do just fine."

He shook his head. "Yeah, maybe if I Confunded the Examiner…"

"Or maybe if you actually did your homework on time for once, and didn't leave it until five minutes before it's due in! Honestly, how you two ever pass _anything_ is completely beyond -"

She caught his amused expression and stopped. "Oh, shut up!" she grinned.

"Seriously," asked Ron, teasingly, "Why do you even hang around with a couple of idiots like me and Harry, anyway? Couldn't you find some nice _smart_ people to hang around with?"

"Well, maybe I don't _want _to hang around with smart people!" she protested, offended. For a suspended moment her words hung in the air, and then they both realised what she'd said at exactly the same time.

"No!" she shouted over Ron's laughter, "That wasn't what I meant! Stop laughing! _Stop laughing!"_

She lunged sideways with her hand raised as though to slap him, but then suddenly realised that if she followed this through, she would be practically on top of him and panicked, pulling her hand back and jumping hurriedly to her feet.

"I'm going to bed now!" she blurted, unable to look him in the eye lest he read her panic for what it really was, "I'm really very tired! Goodnight!"

She made a dash for the door but forgot that it was still bolted, so had to stand there wrestling with the heavy bolt for what seemed like the longest five seconds in the world.

"Goodnight," said Ron, slightly confused by her sudden change in mood. "Sleep well."

"Yes, you too," she gasped, finally managing to wrench the door open and almost running from the room.

"Chance would be a fine thing," Ron muttered wryly to himself, once she had gone. Within minutes, though, he was fast asleep, his dreams woven with images of himself playing Quidditch in an orchard whilst Hermione, wearing Bulgarian national team colours, pelted him with apples from the top of a giant ladder.

* * *

Hermione lay awake for a long time after she got back to her own room, feeling as though an electric current was running through her entire body. Her little trip upstairs had done nothing to help her chances of sleep. She replayed the evening over and over in her mind. What if she had said something, told him it wasn't Viktor she liked, confessed how she felt about him? What if she had kissed him? What if, when he had opened the door to her, she had lifted her top to show him what he obviously wanted to see?

She ran her foot slowly up the back of her leg, wondering what it would feel like to lie in bed with him, his long legs intertwined with hers, his hands exploring her body. Closing her eyes, she imagined herself knocking on his door, just as she had tonight, and him pressing her back against it – kisses, tongues, warm skin on warm skin, fingers exploring, touching, caressing...

Sliding her hand up inside her nightshirt, she spread her fingers wide across her breast, imagining it was Ron's own large hand touching her. She pushed the material up over her chest and let out an involuntary gasp at the sensation of cool night air on her skin.

_"Ron…" _she murmured, and then froze in horror. Had she said that out loud?

"Ginny?" she whispered tentatively into the darkness.

Silence.

She hastily pulled her top back down again, her skin on fire, the blood pounding between her legs, and her heart hammering in her chest.

Oh God, oh God, oh God, oh _God!_

* * *

_Author's Note__:_

_Ahem. I told you this story was rated M for a reason!_

_Ah, you know the drill by now. Review, review, review!_

_PB x_


	11. Chapter 11: Badge

_Author's Note:_

_I know I said that the next chapter was going to be my favourite, but then inspiration struck (at a till queue - lucky I carry a notebook everywhere), and I ended up writing a completely new one instead. There needed to be a post-Grimmauld Place chapter, and this is it. Hope you enjoy it!_

_Cheers!_

_PB x_

* * *

**Chapter Eleven: Badge**

---

"You're not wearing your badge."

"What?"

"Your badge. You're not wearing it."

"Yeah, I am."

"Where is it, then?"

"It's on my jumper."

"Your jumper's tied round your waist."

"So? I'm still _wearing_ it, aren't I?"

"Yes, but nobody can _see_ it!"

Ron gestured in disbelief at the empty corridor they were standing in. "Because there's nobody _here!"_

"You're supposed to wear the badge at all times so everyone knows you're a prefect!"

"What, so they can _throw_ things at me? Hermione, there's _nobody here_, what does it matter if I'm not wearing my bloody badge?"

"I'm wearing mine!"

"Exactly, so why do we _both _need to wear one?"

Hermione huffed irritably, lost for a snappy retort, and for the next few minutes they walked on in tense silence.

"Are you going to put it on properly or not?"" she demanded, finally.

Ron pretended to consider. "Er… let me think... _no_."

"Fine! Do what you want!"

"Thanks very much, I will."

"_Fine!"_

"Fine!"

A month into term and the events at Grimmauld Place already seemed like a very long time ago. She had even started to wonder if she had dreamt the whole thing, imagined meanings behind looks he'd given her and things he'd said that weren't really there. Now they were back at school everything seemed to have gone back to exactly how it was before. Nothing had changed. Ron was just as childish and annoying as ever. Doing prefect rounds with him, which she had initially (possibly optimistically) imagined would be a chance to spend quality time with him away from Harry, had actually turned out to be just an opportunity for him to whinge about what a boring job being a prefect was. It infuriated her that he didn't seem to take the role seriously, refused to discipline anyone even when they clearly deserved it, and hardly ever wore his badge in public unless prompted, as though it was something to be ashamed of. But not nearly as much as it infuriated her that he apparently _liked_ her, but didn't show any sign of _ever doing anything about it_.

---

But then, what had she expected? That on their very first prefect rounds together, he was going to make some sort of big confession? Or that things were going to happen exactly as they had in her own imagination?

_"Hermione, I - I've got to tell you something." _

_"What is it, Ron?" _

_"I - I've wanted to kiss you for ages." _

_"Oh, God, me too!" _

Well, yes. Sort of. But as usual, nothing was that simple. Harry was still going through a lot of difficult personal stuff, Ron himself seemed to be drowning in coursework, and even Hermione was finding their huge workload a struggle, although she'd never admit it. Their fifth year, she strongly suspected, was not going to be an easy one for any of them. She was starting to wonder if her and Ron were even a good idea, and not just because neither of them needed the distraction with their OWLs coming up at the end of the year. How would Harry take it? What if it didn't work out? What if it destroyed their friendship for good? What about her _exams? _

---

Every day she went back and forth in her mind, still waiting and hoping for something to happen, but at the same time half-convinced that acting on her feelings might be a terrible mistake. Maybe some things were better left unsaid.

Beside her Ron failed to stifle an enormous yawn.

"Oh, _I'm_ sorry," retorted Hermione, sarcastically, "Am I boring you?"

"Sorry. It's not you, I'm just knackered." He yawned again, as though to prove his point.

"How can you possibly be tired? It's not even half past nine yet."

"Yeah, but I was up at six, wasn't I?"

Hermione frowned. "Were you? Why?"

Ron just shrugged. Feeling a change of subject was required, he pulled a small red rubber ball from his pocket, bounced it once, and caught it neatly in his left hand. He shot her a sideways glance to see if she looked impressed, but she wasn't even looking in his direction.

Bounce _thwack!_

Bounce _thwack!_

Bounce _thwack!_

"That's actually really annoying, Ron."

"What? Oh." He gave her a sheepish grin. "Yeah, sorry. I'm trying to improve my reflexes."

She came to a halt and frowned at him. "Why?"

_Shit._

"Well," he told her, with a sudden flash of inspiration, "You never know when Death Eaters or Dementors might attack, do you? Just look at what happened to Harry. You have to be prepared."

Hermione looked thoroughly taken aback by this. "Well…" she began, then tailed off, lost for words for once, "Okay."

Ron felt rather pleased with himself for coming up with such a good excuse. She couldn't argue with that, could she? He bounced the ball again and caught it, and Hermione shot him a deathly glare.

"It's still annoying, Ron."

He laughed, and put the ball back in his pocket. "Sorry."

Ten days until the Quidditch trials and he still hadn't mentioned it to anyone. With any luck he'd be able to just turn up the day without anyone knowing, although obviously his brothers and Harry and the other team members would find out soon enough. But _she _wouldn't, she'd be reading or revising or writing a fifty-foot essay just for fun or something. Then, if he made the team, he could come back and casually announce it, like it wasn't a big deal at all. Really surprise her. In a _good_ way, not like the nasty shock she'd got when he'd been made prefect.

---

Mind you, it had been a shock to everyone, most of all Ron himself. At first he'd been stunned, then pleased, then unsure, then excited, and then unsure again, all in the space of about thirty seconds. Fred and George had been teasing him about it ever since, telling him he was "the new Percy", joking that he'd let them down, saying that Hermione must have had a "bad" influence on him, or that McGonagall must have tripped and hit her head, because that was the only possible explanation for her making _Ron_ a prefect. _Over Harry _was the clear implication.

---

A month into the new term and he still wasn't really sure how he felt about the whole thing. Mostly he agreed with Fred; who in their right mind would have made him a prefect? And who in their right mind would want to _be_ one? It was a thankless job, to say the least. No-one would dare to talk back to the teachers, especially the scary ones like McGonagall and Snape, but the other kids seem to consider it practically their duty to be cheeky to the prefects. Even the first years, for God's sake. What was the point of being a prefect if you couldn't boss around the little kids? Hermione had said that it would look good on future job applications, but he wanted to be an Auror, not a sodding librarian. Aurors were the rule-breakers, the smart-but-still-cool kids, not the ones who toed the official line and enjoyed making everyone else toe it too. Of the Aurors he knew, he certainly couldn't imagine either Tonks or Mad-Eye Moody ever having been prefects when they were at school. No, it was always people like Percy and Hermione, the ones who were destined to spend the rest of their adult lives stuck behind a desk with their nose in a book. Or worse, never actually managing to leave school at all and becoming _teachers! _

---

Most of the time, wearing the little gold prefect badge felt like a big fat lie, as though he'd stolen it from the person who it _really_ belonged to. He still genuinely had no idea why McGonagall had chosen him, as out of the five boys she could have given it to, he considered himself absolutely the least likely to be handed such a responsibility. _(Well, maybe before Seamus) _But he'd been doing it for a month now, it didn't seem as though McGonagall was going to suddenly realise she'd made a mistake and take the badge back, and he was starting to realise that there were distinct benefits that came with the role.

---

He was now allowed to use the special prefects' bathroom, for a start, although he hadn't actually dared to try it yet, mainly because Harry had warned him that Moaning Myrtle would sometime sneak in through the pipes and try to get a look at boys' cocks in the bath. A ghost she might be, but that still didn't mean he wanted her looking at his cock. Or anyone else, for that matter. Mind you, he pondered, could you get a blow job from a ghost? What would _that_ feel like? Like standing naked in a draught, probably. Oh, Christ, was what he _thinking? _She was _fourteen!_ Yeah, a fourteen year old _ghost_, you muppet. _Is that better? I'm not sure it is. _He bit back a laugh at the thought of what Hermione would say if she could read his mind right now.

---

Still, there were other, less, ah, _conditional_ benefits. The best one was that his parents had offered to buy him a "well done" present, as they had for his brothers before him, so he'd asked, hardly daring to hope that their money would stretch that far, if they would buy him a new broomstick. "Not a really good one, just a new one for a change." So now he was the proud owner of a brand new - _new! _- Cleansweep Eleven. It wasn't as good as Harry's Firebolt or the Slytherin team's Nimbuses, but it was a lot faster than the school brooms, and most importantly, it meant he might now actually have a halfway decent chance of getting on the team.

---

The other happy side-effect of being made Prefect was that there were two prefects chosen from each House, a boy and a girl, and Gryffindor's other fifth year prefect was Hermione. _Of course_. He would put up with the disadvantages of being a prefect - all the time spent at meetings and on patrols when he could be practising or sleeping or eating, becoming a reluctant figure of authority, the relentless ribbing he got from his brothers and the other Gryffindor boys, the sheer mind-numbing boredom of prefect meetings - because it was a great excuse to spend more time with her, without Harry around cramping his style.

---

Not to mention, of course, that for a serious-minded girl like her, Ron being a prefect was _bound_ to impress her, wasn't it? She might even start to think of him differently, as the kind of sensible, grown-up, responsible boy that she might actually be interested in. He wasn't really sensible, grown-up or responsible, of course. But maybe if he could pretend for long enough, she might be convinced.

"Where did you get the ball from, anyway?" asked Hermione vaguely.

"Um… can't remember. Think I found it…?" he added, hopefully.

The truth was that he had confiscated it from some little shit of a second year Hufflepuff kid, who had shouted after him, _"Prefect wanker!" _as he walked away. He felt a bit bad about it, but he really needed a ball if he was going to practice properly. For most of the month it had been raining too hard to use the pitch, and there was a limit to how useful it was practicing Keeping on his own anyway. Hermione would go mental if she ever found out he'd used his prefect title to steal something from a younger boy, but then, Hermione didn't need to know, did she? He told himself it would be worth it in the end, if he managed to get on the team. Prefect _and_ Keeper. It was the perfect combination. She liked Quidditch players, and she liked people who followed the rules. It was basic maths, wasn't it? Badge + broomstick = definite snog. All he had to do now was get on the bloody team.

He bounced the ball again without thinking, and Hermione glared at him.

"Sorry," he mumbled, "I forgot."

He'd been out practicing every evening for the last week, sometimes getting up early to get in an hour's practice before breakfast, with the unfortunate result that he was getting more and more behind with his homework. He kept telling himself that exams were almost a year away, and that once he got on the team he'd have more time to concentrate on his studies, but the truth was he probably wouldn't, and actually, he didn't really care. It wasn't like if he just worked hard he'd suddenly turn into some sort of academic genius, like his mum seemed to think. Still, it was a bit of a shock to the system. Everyone had told them that OWL year was going to be really hard work, but he hadn't really expected the teachers to be piling on the homework quite as much as they were. That combined with all the extra time he was spending on prefect duties and secret Quidditch practice, meant he hardly even had time to sit down these days.

Oh, _hell_.

He glanced at his watch and let out a groan.

"What?"

"How long is this going to take?"

"I don't know. Not long. Why?"

"'Cos I've just remembered I haven't finished my Charms essay yet, and it's due in first thing tomorrow morning!"

Hermione shook her head despairingly. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Shit, I can't believe I forgot!"

"I can," she said, dryly.

"Look, do you mind finishing the rest of this on your own?"

"Yes!" she protested, outraged, "Yes, I mind very much!"

"Well, can't we just skip a couple of floors, then? Nobody's going to be hanging around in any empty classrooms at this time of night, are they?"

"No, we can't," said Hermione, severely. "We've been given a position of responsibility and we can't abuse it."

Ron rolled his eyes. "I'm not talking about _abusing_ it, I'm just talking about skipping a few classrooms so we can get back and finish our Charms essays for tomorrow morning. I would have thought you of all people would understand that."

Hermione chose to ignore the jibe. "_Your_ Charms essay, you mean. I finished mine last week."

"Fine, _my_ essay, then. Come on, who would even know?"

"_I_ would know!" she retorted, angrily. "And you would too, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for even considering it!"

"Oh, give me a break, it's just one night! I've got three more essays to do by Monday as well!"

_"Three?"_ she exclaimed, incredulously. "How can you possibly have three essays to do?"

"Potions, Divination, and that nightmare one Umbridge set that's due in on Monday."

"But the Potions essay was set two weeks ago! Why didn't you do it last weekend?"

"I was busy," he said, evasively.

"Doing what?"

"Stuff."

"What stuff?"

Ron coloured. "_Stuff_, alright? Does it matter?"

"Stuff like playing chess and stuffing your face and sleeping in 'til midday and arguing about Quidditch with Seamus and generally messing about, you mean?"

"If you say so," he said, testily. "The point is, I _didn't _do them, and I'm just asking if we could possibly finish prefect rounds half an hour earlier so I can get back and start working on them now. Is that too much to ask?"

"You've got the whole weekend to do them."

"Yeah, but -"

_Quidditch trials are next week and I need to practise. _

"Oh, never mind. Forget it."

They walked on in huffy silence for a couple of minutes, checking two more classrooms, then he said, more in hope than expectation, "How about we do a floor each? I'll do the fifth floor and you can do the sixth, and we can meet back in the common room in fifteen minutes."

"We're supposed to do it _together!" _protested Hermione, outraged.

"Does it matter?"

"Well, no, but -"

She stopped, realising that there was no way of explaining why it was so important to her without it sounding either immensely childish or quite the opposite.

"_Please_, Hermione, I'm really screwed if I don't get this in on time. I'll be up 'til past midnight writing the bloody thing as it is."

"_No_. You always do this, Ron. What's the point of being a prefect if you're just going to abdicate your responsibilities the first chance you get?"

"It's just one night!"

"No, it isn't, it's every week! Being a prefect is a serious responsibility, Ron! You can't just pick and choose when you want to do things!"

"Yeah, well, I never asked to be a sodding prefect, did I?"

Hermione gaped at him. "You make it sound like a punishment!"

"Well, it bloody well _feels_ like it at the moment with you shouting at me all the time!"

"I am not shouting at you!"

"Oh, right, what would you call - oh, _Christ_, that's _all_ I need!"

They had rounded a corner and walked straight into Draco Malfoy and Pansy Parkinson, the Slytherin prefects, coming the other way.

Malfoy's pale eyes lit up at the sight of them.

"Well, well, Weasel and Granger… Out for a little late night stroll, are we? Tsk tsk… What would Professor McGonagall say if she found out?"

"We're _prefects_, you idiot," snapped Ron, rudely. "We're on rounds. What are _you_ doing out of the common room?"

Malfoy smiled coldly, and gave his little silver badge a pointed polish. "We're on rounds, too."

"But you _can't_ be!" protested Hermione, indignantly, "Professor McGonagall _specifically_ told us that _we _were supposed to be doing rounds on Wednesday nights! _You're_ supposed to be doing _Thursdays!"_

"Keep your knickers on," drawled Malfoy, with a grin. "I asked Professor Umbridge if we could do Wednesdays instead, and she gave us permission."

"Well, no-one told _us!"_

"Not our problem," said Malfoy, with an infuriating shrug. "You should have checked, shouldn't you?"

"We shouldn't have _needed_ to check! We were told we were doing rounds on Wednesday nights, so as far as _we_ were concerned -"

"Why d'you want to swap nights, anyway?" interrupted Ron.

"Because Thursday nights are when the Slytherin team practice, you moron. Some of us do actually bother to practice, you know. Maybe if the Gryffindor team practiced a little bit more, they might actually stand a chance of not coming _last_ for once."

"Yeah, well, maybe some of us don't _need_ to practice..."

"Well, _you _don't, Weasley, because you're not actually on the team, are you?"

Ron opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again. Malfoy was the last person he wanted knowing about his plan to try out for Keeper.

Malfoy gave an annoying little chuckle, then casually reached into his robes and pulled out a packet of biscuits, taking one and popping it into his mouth then offering the packet to Pansy.

Ron eyed them hungrily, and a slow grin spread across Malfoy's face.

"Oh, I'm sorry, how _rude_ of me. Here, have a biscuit."

He pretended to toss one at Ron, who automatically made a grab for it, then pulled his hand back, realising too late that it was just a trick.

Malfoy and Pansy both laughed out loud, and Ron flushed in humiliation.

"Oh, grow up, Malfoy," he muttered, "That wasn't funny."

"Oh, didn't you think so? Funny, because _we_ enjoyed it, didn't we, Pansy?"

Pansy nodded, and shot Hermione a smug look, as if to say, "You picked the wrong side".

"Aw," said Malfoy, "Maybe it _was_ a little unfair. I should have given you more warning. Tell you what, here's another. Fetch, doggy!"

He deliberately threw a biscuit down at Ron's feet and shot him an insolent smile. "What's the matter? Don't you want it?"

Ron just looked at him with something approaching hatred. "If you think I'm actually going to pick that up," he said through gritted teeth, "Then you're even more stupid than I thought you were."

Malfoy's smile vanished in an instant. "No, I suppose even a human dustbin like you can't possibly still be hungry after the amount you put away at dinner. It really was one of the most revolting sights I've ever had the misfortune to witness. Honestly, you'd think you'd never used _cutlery_ before. Still, I suppose quality silverware _is_ expensive." He gave a derisory laugh. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if your family still eat with their hands."

"Like trolls," piped up Pansy, with a sly look at Hermione, and Malfoy sniggered, but he looked rather annoyed that she had interrupted him.

"Good one, Pansy. There _is_ a certain resemblance, isn't there? In fact -"

Hermione finally snapped. "Are you going to pick that up, Malfoy, or am I going to have to report you for littering?"

Malfoy turned his cold smile on her in a flash. "Oh, yes, you'd love that, wouldn't you? Unfortunately -"

He pulled out his wand and lazily Vanished the biscuit.

"I'd like to see you try and report me for something that isn't there. Shame, really, it's a waste of a perfectly good biscuit. You should have let your little lap-dog pick it up after all."

"Shut up, Malfoy," snarled Ron, going red.

"It's funny," remarked Malfoy, turning to Pansy, "When it talks, all I can hear is _'woof woof woof'_."

Pansy laughed dutifully, and Malfoy looked, if anything, even more pleased with himself. He turned to Hermione again.

"Now why don't you run along, or I'll have to report you for being out of the common room after hours."

"You can't report another prefect," said Hermione, appalled. "It's against the rules!"

Malfoy merely laughed contemptuously. "Oh, you're talking about _rules_ now? I think you'll find that _you're_ the one who's out of bounds, not _me_."

"This is completely outrageous!" she protested, still thoroughly put out by the original slight, "You should at least have _asked_ us if we minded swapping nights!"

Malfoy gave an elaborate fake yawn, and hot fury rose within her.

_"You -" _she began, but Ron seized her arm.

"Come on, he's not worth the argument. At least now I can get back early and finish my Charms essay."

"That's not the point, Ron! Anyway, we were _already_ nearly finished! Thanks to him, we'll have to come back and do this all over again tomorrow!"

"I would have thought you'd relish the opportunity to boss people around two days in a row, Granger. I'm surprised you haven't volunteered to be a prefect full-time, in fact. It's just the sort of thing you enjoy, isn't it?"

"In that case," Ron flashed back with a grin, "I'm surprised _you_ haven't volunteered to be a full-time wanker."

He made a suggestive hand gesture and laughed, and Malfoy's eyes flashed in anger.

"Did you have to bribe someone to get that badge, Weasley? Oh, no, _that's_ right, you haven't got any money, have you? Maybe it's really Potter's badge and he just paid you to do the job for him. Funny, it's almost like you're a _servant_, isn't it?"

He laughed at his own hilarious joke, then adopted an expression of fake sympathy.

"Come on, Weasel, you can tell us. Did you _steal_ the badge, is that what happened? I haven't seen Longbottom about for a few days, maybe it's really _his_ badge and he's locked in a cupboard somewhere under a Stunning spell. It would certainly make more sense than them giving it to _you."_

"Get lost, Malfoy," snapped Ron.

He laughed. "Touched a nerve, I see. You know, I'm surprised you haven't pawned it yet. It must be worth more than your whole _house, _surely. I'd use the cash to buy yourself some new shoes if I were you. Those have seen better days, don't you think?"

Pansy giggled again and Draco practically swelled with self-satisfaction. "Or maybe they haven't. Maybe those were the best your father could afford. Dear God, _second-hand shoes_. I think I'd rather kill myself."

"Don't let us stop you," muttered Hermione.

Malfoy shot her a deathly glare, then turned back to Ron. "It's a shame prefects aren't allowed to dock points, if you ask me. I'd take ten points from Gryffindor for the state of your shoes, for a start."

He paused for dramatic effect, with a sideways glance at Hermione.

"And another ten for having to look at the Mudblood's _ugly face _for the last five years."

Ron's hands curled into tight fists and he stepped forward threateningly, right in Malfoy's face. "How about I take ten points away from Slytherin by breaking all your fingers, Malfoy?"

_"Ron!" _gasped Hermione, shocked, grabbing the back of his shirt to stop him doing something he might regret. Punching a fellow prefect was very likely to get him suspended, if not expelled, and worse, they might even take his _badge_ away from him.

A small, cold smile appeared on Malfoy's face, but he didn't back down. "Better be careful, Weasel, you don't want to get on the wrong side of me. I can make life very miserable for you if I want to."

Ron gave a derisory snort. "Is that supposed to be a threat? Ooh, I'm really scared. What are you going to do, run to Daddy?"

"You _should_ be scared," said Malfoy, going red with anger. "My father knows some pretty important people. You want to watch yourself."

"Yeah, yeah," said Ron, waving a dismissive hand in Malfoy's direction and starting to walk away. "Come on, Hermione, I'm bored with this conversation now. Let's just go."

"But -"

"Come _on!"_

"Yes, better go, Granger. Weasley needs some help with his homework. Probably hasn't learnt to write his own name yet. Hey, maybe _I _can help. It's R…O…N…A -"

Ron wheeled around and spat, "Oh, just _fuck off_, will you!" over his shoulder before storming off down the corridor, Hermione close at his heels.

"Ron!"

_"What?"_

"Don't shout at _me!"_

"I'm not shouting at you, I'm shouting at - oh, _forget_ it!"

They rounded a corner and out of Malfoy's line of vision, and Ron finally slowed to a halt, burying his head in his hands and letting out a muffled scream of frustration.

"Sorry. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shout at you. He just really winds me up, that's all."

"I know," she said, soothingly, "You shouldn't let him, you know. It just makes it worse."

_"Worse?" _snorted Ron, disbelievingly. "God, he's such a little _shit!_ There's got to be some way I can get him put in detention. Loitering with a face like a smacked arse, maybe..."

"Ron!" protested Hermione, scandalized, "You are a _prefect! _You're supposed to set an _example!_"

"What, like _he_ does? Come on, you've seen the way he goes around handing out punishments to all the other houses apart from Slytherin! Jesus, I can't _wait_ until the first match now. If we beat him, I'll laugh myself _sick."_

Hermione pursed her lips in disapproval. _Quidditch! _She'd never really seen the point of it, if she were honest. It was supposed to foster a sense of group identity, but actually just ended up creating rifts and rivalries between the Houses. Why couldn't Hogwarts have mixed teams, with players from all the Houses competing together? Perhaps she should suggest it to Madame Hooch, even put together some sort of proposal. She could go to the library and see if there were any historical precedents. For a brief moment she got quite excited at the idea, but then a sideways glance at Ron, still huffing over Malfoy, and she knew it was unworkable.

They climbed the stairs heavily, Ron muttering that he was "too angry to write my bloody essay now" and that Malfoy "thinks he's so fantastic", and Hermione making sympathetic little noises of agreement whenever there was a gap in his complaining.

"I mean, he's not even that good a Seeker! If his Dad hadn't bought new brooms for the entire team, there's no way he'd have passed a proper audition! I bet there were loads of people in Slytherin who would have really liked a chance at getting on the team and didn't get one, just because Malfoy thinks he can buy his way into getting anything he wants!"

Hermione recalled that Harry hadn't had to audition for the team in his first year either, but felt it best not to bring this up as it might seem disloyal. She remembered too well the mutterings about "special treatment" and "just because he's famous" that had only stopped once Harry had caught the Snitch at the end of his first match and silenced his critics once and for all. Besides, Ron was right, at least Harry hadn't _bought_ his way onto the team as Malfoy had done.

"You shouldn't let him get to you, you know. It's what he wants."

Ron rounded on her furiously. "What, I should just let him get away with saying whatever he wants about me and my family, should I?"

"No, of course not. But you do make it worse for yourself by letting him see how much it bothers you -"

"Oh, so it's _my _fault now, is it?"

She sighed. "_No_. That's not what I said. Don't take it out on me because you're angry with Malfoy."

"I can't believe you're actually sticking up for him! Did you not hear what he said about you?"

Hermione flushed crimson.

_"and another ten for having to look at the Mudblood's ugly face for the last five years…"_

"Of course I did! I don't like it any more than you do, you know I don't! But he only said it to get a reaction, and you played right into his hands! If you'd hit him, he'd have been straight on to Umbridge to get you expelled like a shot!"

Ron smacked his fist hard into the palm of his other hand with relish. "I wish I _had_ punched him. He's had it coming for years. Little bastard wouldn't know what hit him."

"Yes, he would! _You! You_ would have hit him, and you'd have been on the train back home so fast your feet wouldn't even touch the ground! Is he really worth sacrificing your whole future for?"

Ron gave a violent shrug. He wasn't really listening anymore. As was always the case whenever he had a run-in with Malfoy, his head was full of all the things he _should _have said, all the ways the situation could have played out better. He kicked the ground in frustration. That little dig about his crappy hand-me-down shoes… Ah, fuck, he should have said, "Yeah, well, there's no point me having shiny shoes when I'm only going to use them to _kick your arse…" _He cursed himself silently. Why did he always think of exactly the right response ten minutes afterwards? And why the fuck had he fallen for Malfoy's stupid little biscuit trick? Jesus, that was embarrassing. In front of Hermione, too. Fan-freaking-tastic. His face burned in humiliation at the memory of it.

They walked on in silence for a few more minutes, then Ron turned to her and said, in an anguished tone, "You know what _really_ pisses me off about him?"

Hermione said nothing. He was going to tell her anyway.

"It's just that whenever I get into an argument with him, I get so angry I can't think of anything to say. My mind goes completely blank. He's coming out with all the usual shit about how my family's got no money and my mum's fat, and all that crap, and all _I_ can think of to say is 'fucking fucking bastard tossfuck'. And that's not even a _word!"_

He looked so appalled that Hermione wanted to laugh, even when she knew that she should be scolding him for his terrible language. Instead, she just shook her head and sighed.

"It's my fault as much as yours."

"_My_ fault? How is it _my_ fault? He's the one who started it!"

Hermione ignored him. "I let him get to me too. We should have just walked away. Risen above it. Shown him we're better than he is."

"And you think that would stop him, do you?" demanded Ron, disbelievingly.

It was her turn to shrug. "Probably not, but at least you wouldn't get yourself expelled."

"Yeah, well, maybe I should. At least then I wouldn't have to worry about failing all my exams. Better to get chucked out for punching Malfoy than for failing Divination."

"Oh, don't be facetious!" snapped Hermione, angrily. "It doesn't suit you!"

The corners of Ron's mouth twitched slightly. "I'd disagree with you if I knew what that actually meant."

Hermione shot him one of her deathliest glares, and he held his hands up in mock-defence.

"Oh, shut up," she grinned. "Why are you so annoying?"

Ron shrugged. "Well, if I knew _that_…"

She punched him lightly in the arm, and he laughed. "Why are we wasting all this time arguing about Malfoy, anyway?"

Hermione thought about it for a moment. "You know, for once I actually completely agree with you."

Ron feigned shock. "_Really? _You _agree_ with me? Wow, I'd better call the Daily Prophet! That's got to be some kind of a record!"

Hermione laughed, and punched him in the arm again. She'd caught herself doing it rather a lot lately. It was the only physical contact she could get away with without rousing suspicion. Fortunately, quite a lot of the things Ron said and did seemed to require a punch in the arm, even though what she really longed to do, especially when they were alone together on patrols like they were tonight, was slip her arm through his or take his hand.

Ron cleared his throat pointedly. "So, um, I wanted to ask you something…"

She glanced up quickly, her heart suddenly racing. "Oh?"

"Yeah, um... listen, would you mind having a quick look through my Charms essay? It won't take more than five minutes. I just feel like I've been staring at it so long I'm not sure if it's even English anymore."

"Of course I will."

"Cheers," he said, gratefully. "You're completely brilliant, you know that?"

She felt her face heat up, as it always did whenever Ron tossed a compliment her way, even though nine times out of ten it was either backhanded ("Ask Hermione. She'll know. She knows _everything_.") or only proffered because she'd just done or was about to do him some kind of a favour. He never paid her any compliments _just because_, and certainly nothing about her physical appearance. Not once, in fact, in the five years they'd known each other, could she ever remember Ron saying she looked nice.

"Thanks," she said, dryly, but he didn't seem to notice.

"So the thing I didn't understand was the bit about -"

She suddenly threw her arm out in front of him to stop him walking, and they came to a halt outside a darkened and empty classroom.

_"Shhh!" _

"What now?" asked Ron, annoyed.

"I can hear voices! Listen!"

They both fell silent, and sure enough there was the distinct murmur of voices from within.

"Right!" said Hermione purposefully, and she drew her wand, pushed open the door and marched into the room, ignoring Ron's weak protests that they weren't even on patrol anymore, and to let Malfoy deal with it.

A boy and girl were busy snogging each other's faces off on a desk. The girl was sitting on the edge of the desk with her legs wrapped tightly around him, and the boy's hand was buried somewhere inside her shirt.

Ron's jaw dropped open, and Hermione gasped.

"Oh! I - _oh!"_

"Clear off, will you?" grunted the boy, without looking up, "Can't you see we're busy?"

Hermione recognised them immediately. The boy was a seventh year Ravenclaw, and the girl was a fellow Gryffindor who she'd seen hanging around with Angelina.

"But -"

"There's plenty of other empty classrooms you can snog in, you know."

Hermione flushed crimson. "That's not - we're not - we're _prefects!"_

"Sorry to hear that," said the boy, dryly, "Now be a good little girl and _piss off_."

"Hey," protested Ron, weakly. "That's not on, mate."

The boy finally let go of his girlfriend, got to his feet, and squared up to Ron, seemingly completely unfazed that Ron was several inches taller than he was.

"Look, no offence, _mate_, but how old are you, fifteen? Well, we're both _eight_een, we're well over the age of consent, and I'm not going to be told what to do by a couple of snotty little kids who think a shiny little badge makes them special. Alright?"

"I - I - I -" Hermione stuttered, too indignant to form a complete sentence.

"Come on," Ron muttered, putting a hand on her shoulder and trying to drag her away. "Let's just go."

"No," she told him, shrugging off his hand and regaining her fire, "_No!_ We've been entrusted with a job and we're going to do it. You're not supposed to be out in the corridors after hours, and as a prefect, I'm ordering you to go back to your common room."

The girl and boy exchanged amused grins.

"You're _ordering_ us?" repeated the boy, "Are you kidding?"

"No, I'm not kidding," said Hermione, her voice shaking slightly, "I'm perfectly serious, in fact."

The boy gave an incredulous laugh and shook his head in disbelief. "You need to keep your girlfriend on a tighter leash, mate. I think the power's gone to her head."

It was Ron's turn to blush. "She's not my -"

"You seem to forget that this _power_ gives me the right to put you both in detention!" shrieked Hermione, interrupting him.

The boy gave an airy shrug. "Fine, do it. In fact, you can give me a _week's_ worth of sodding detentions if it makes you feel better. It'll be worth it for _this.._."

And he turned back to the girl, took her face in his hands, and resumed kissing her, deliberately reaching down and fondling her breast just to embarrass them. The girl caught Hermione's eye over his head, then giggled and murmured something in his ear. They both laughed.

"You're not wrong there," said the boy, and Hermione felt a jolt go through her. She knew they were laughing at her, and it was not a nice feeling.

She looked away quickly, her face burning, then remembered why she was here.

"I mean it!" she told them, her voice very high now.

The couple ignored her and continued their snogging session, if anything with even more enthusiasm than before, now they had an audience.

"I'm warning you!"

"Oh, get lost, you silly cow!"

She gasped, and glanced at Ron for support, but he was just staring dumbstruck at where the boy's hand was and didn't appear to have even heard.

_"Right!" _she barked, furiously, "You asked for it! A week of detentions for both of you!"

A cacophony of protest greeted this announcement, including from Ron, who was appalled.

"But she's in _Gryffindor!"_

"A _week?"_

_"_You're fucking _joking!"_

Hermione realised immediately that she had over-reacted, and that a week of detentions was indeed rather strict a punishment for what was, after all, a fairly trivial offence. But she couldn't back down now, she'd lose all authority.

"I'll give you _another _week if you carry on talking to me like that!"

Ron buried his head in his hands and groaned. "Hermione, for fuck's sake…"

"Shut _up_, Ron!"

Ron's stared at her, stunned. "_Me? _What did _I_ do?"

"Nothing at all, that's exactly the point!"

He opened his mouth to retort, then closed it again, shaking his head. "I can't argue with you when you're like this."

"Why not?" she flashed back, "It doesn't _usually_ stop you!"

The boy and girl exchanged amused grins.

"Oh, dear, is there disharmony in the ranks?"

The girl giggled. "I think we broke up the dream team!"

They both laughed, and Hermione turned on them furiously. "If I catch you out of the common room after hours again, I'll report you to the _Headmaster_, and _then_ you'll be sorry!"

They just laughed at her.

"Yeah, yeah," said the boy, blithely, "Whatever. Listen, just 'cos _you're _not getting any, there's no need to take it out on us."

He turned to Ron as Hermione blustered fruitlessly. "You're Fred and George Weasley's little brother aren't you?" He shook his head solemnly. "They must be really proud."

"It's not _me!" _Ron protested, firing up, "It's _her! I_ don't care what you get up to!"

_"Excuse _me?" protested Hermione, angrily.

Ron faltered in the face of her fury. "I just meant... well, you know, giving them _detention_…" he finished, lamely, "It's a bit over the top, that's all."

"Over the top?"shrieked Hermione, _"Over the top?"_

"Hey," grinned the boy, "Not wishing to interrupt or anything, but do you mind taking this outside? Only you're kind of spoiling the mood..."

"Fine!" snapped Hermione, her voice still sounding very high in her own head. "But just remember, if you hadn't been breaking school rules in the first place, none of this would have happened! We're just doing our job, that's all!"

"Yeah," retorted the boy, "Of course you were." He put on a fake German accent and raised his arm above his shoulder in a Hitler salute: _"I vos only following orders!"_

"I do know what means, you know," said Hermione, icily. "My parents are Muggles."

"Good," said the boy, unfazed. "Then you'll know it's not meant to be a compliment, won't you?"

Hermione opened her mouth to retort then closed it again. She looked around for Ron and realised with a jolt that he wasn't standing behind her anymore and had left her to deal with the situation on her own. Angry and embarrassed, she bowed her head and left the room hurriedly, the sound of their laughter ringing in her ears. Ron was already nearly at the end of the corridor, and she had to run to catch him up.

_"Ron!"_

He didn't slow down.

"Why didn't you back me up?" she demanded, finally pulling level.

Ron stopped walking and gave her an incredulous look. "Why didn't I _what?"_

"You're a prefect too, why didn't you say anything?"

He shrugged. "Because… because… I dunno, maybe because I don't actually _care_ if they're out snogging all night! Not enough to give them _detention_ for, anyway. You know what, he's right, the power's gone to your head! Giving detentions to people from your own_ House_? Christ, Hermione!"

"They were wandering around the castle after hours!"

Ron snorted. "What, like _we_ never do that?"

"That's not the point! You can't express favouritism as a prefect! You have to treat everyone the same, regardless of what House they're in!"

"Oh, what, like Malfoy does?"

"You're going to use _Malfoy_ as a role model?"

"No, I - look, I'm just saying, why couldn't we just give them a telling off and send them on their way?"

_"We? _I didn't notice _you_ doing anything! Apart from standing there making unhelpful little remarks!"

Ron shook his head in slow disbelief. "Fred and George are going to take the piss out of me _forever_ for this…"

"What's _that _got to do with anything?"

"You're not _really_ going to put them in detention, are you?"

"Of course I am! I can't say something and then not do it. It would totally undermine the authority of the prefect system!"

"Oh, God! Who gives a shit about the sodding prefect system? No-one!"

"_I_ do!"

"Well, you're the only one!"

"Well, if you hate it so much, why don't you give back the badge? No-one's making you do this, you know! It's not compulsory!"

"I don't _hate_ it, I just -"

_I thought it would impress you._

He shrugged. "I dunno, really. I suppose I thought it would be a laugh, but actually it's like having a really shit part-time job that you don't even get paid for."

"It's not supposed to be a _laugh_, Ron. It's supposed to be an _honour_."

Ron made a sceptical noise in his throat. "For _you_, maybe. I don't give a toss either way, to be honest."

"I don't believe that."

"What, so you're saying I'm a _liar _now?"

"No," she said, impatiently, "I'm saying I saw how pleased you were when you opened the letter."

"Oh, right, would that be _before_ or _after _you assumed it must be Harry who'd got the badge because _nobody in their right mind would make me a prefect!"_

"Fred said that, not me. I would have thought you'd want to prove him wrong."

"That's not - I don't -" He tailed off with a frustrated shrug. "Anyway, you didn't exactly disagree with him."

"Yes, I did!"

"Oh, come on, you couldn't have looked more shocked if you tried!"

"You were shocked too!"

"_Everyone_ was bloody shocked," he growled. "You all made it quite clear you thought McGonagall had made a mistake and it should have been Harry instead."

"No, that's not what -"

He cut her off. "I don't care, anyway. I'm not interested in being a perfect little prefect and Head Boy and all that crap. I'm not _Percy_."

"So you're not even going to _try_ to be a good prefect because you don't want to be compared to Percy? That's ridiculous! Anyway, wasn't Bill a prefect, and Charlie too?"

"Bill was Head Boy," he muttered.

"Well, then!"

"Well, then, _what?"_

"You don't have to be like Percy if you don't want to. Be like Bill instead. Or even better, don't be like any of them. Just be yourself."

Ron gave a derisory snort, as though this was a completely ridiculous suggestion. "You don't understand what it's like."

"What _what's_ like?"

"Having five older brothers."

"What does it matter what your brothers do?"

"Because it _does, _alright? _Jesus!"_

They stared at each other for a suspended moment, then Ron looked away, down at his shoes.

"I'm not Percy," he muttered, angrily. "I'd never betray my family like he did. _Never."_

She sighed. "I never said you would. Look... I know Percy's not exactly your favourite person at the moment, but that doesn't mean everything he ever did is wrong. Would you rather go down the Fred and George route and only scrape three OWLs because you spent all your time messing around?"

"I'll probably only scrape three OWLs anyway."

"Ron, our exams are _nine months _away. There's plenty of time for you to catch up yet. You could do really well if only you knuckled down and worked hard."

He gave a disbelieving snort. "Yeah, that's what my Mum said too."

"Well, she's right."

Ron merely shrugged.

"Look, you can't have it both ways. Either you genuinely don't care about being a prefect, and that's why you're not even trying, or you do, and you're scared to make a go of it in case your brothers tease you about it."

"Or maybe I'm just a shit prefect, how about that?"

Hermione gritted her teeth in annoyance. "Well, that's rather up to you, isn't it?"

"Or maybe McGonagall just made a mistake."

"Or maybe she just has more faith in your abilities than _you _do."

"What abilities?" muttered Ron.

"Fine. _Fine! _I can see I'm wasting my time. If you don't want to be a prefect, Ron, don't be one. But don't pretend you don't care when you obviously _do_, and don't blame everyone else for something that's your decision. You could be good at this if you just bothered to make an effort."

"Well, maybe I don't _want_ to be good at it. Like Fred said, only prats become prefects."

"Well, thank you," she said, stiffly. "Now I know what you think of me."

"Not _me! _I'm just telling you what everyone _else_ thinks."

"Why do _you _care so much what everyone else thinks?"

"Why don't you get off my back?"

They glared at each other, then Hermione shook her head in disgust.

"Well, I'm _proud_ to be a prefect," she said, haughtily. "I think it's an honour."

"Oh, _come_ on, nobody thinks it's an honour except you and my Mum. Everyone else thinks it's something only swots do. Seamus says -"

"Oh, will you just _shut up!"_

He faltered. "What?"

"I don't _care_ what Seamus says! And I don't care what Fred and George say, or what Malfoy says, or what _anyone _says! And you shouldn't either!"

"What about what _you _say?" asked Ron, shrewdly. "Should I ignore that too, or is that somehow completely different because you're always right?"

Hermione looked at him for a few moments, unable to think of a suitable reply, then sighed and shook her head wearily.

"I don't want to argue about this anymore, Ron."

"You started it," he said, petulantly.

She gaped at him. "_How? _How did I start it?"

"Giving those seventh years detention. I mean, you do know it'll be all over the common room by breakfast, don't you? We'll never live this down."

_"We?" _she snapped back, sarcastically, "I thought this was entirely _my_ fault? That's what you told that boy, anyway! _'It's not me, it's her!'_"

Ron coloured. "No, that's not - I didn't - well, I _did_, but - anyway, that's not the point!"

He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "Look. Fair enough if you think I'm a shit prefect -"

"That's got nothing to do with it! And anyway, it's not true!" she added, hastily.

"- but you really can't go around giving out detentions to people just because they're rude to you."

"That's not why - that's got nothing to do with - _you_ were going to put Malfoy in detention just because he was rude to you!"

"Yeah, but I didn't, did I?"

"You were going to hit him!"

"Yeah, but I _didn't_. Anyway, you've got a short memory, weren't you the one who slapped him around the face about two years ago? Not that I'm complaining or anything, but still..."

"He deserved it! He was trying to get Hagrid sacked!"

"I _know! _I'm not disagreeing with you! Look, forget about Malfoy, he deserves everything he gets. But those seventh years didn't deserve a week's worth of detentions, no matter what they said to you. Why can't you just admit you were wrong?"

"Because I wasn't!"

"It does happen occasionally, you know," said Ron, dryly.

"_They were breaking school rules!" _she wailed, angry that he still didn't seem to understand her point.

"Fine, but as far as school rules go, is sneaking off for a snog really harming anyone? I mean, fair enough if they were, I dunno," - he pretended to consider - "Stealing supplies from the Potions cupboard to brew an illegal Polyjuice potion? I mean, that's got to be worth, what, at least a suspension, what do you reckon?"

"That's not fair," she protested, weakly. "That was a life or death situation. Anyway, I wasn't a prefect then."

Ron seized on her words immediately. "Oh, so it would have been okay if you _were_ a prefect, then, would it? Different rules apply to prefects, do they?"

She glared at him. "You know perfectly well that's not what I meant, so stop trying to twist my words. I never said I was perfect. I know I've broken a few school rules myself, I'm not denying that. Even if most of the time it was because you and Harry talked me into it."

Ron laughed, and she realised with a jolt that he was actually enjoying this. And then, with an even bigger jolt, that they'd been standing outside the door to the common room for the last five minutes, too caught up in the argument to even notice. How had _that_ happened?

She rubbed her eyes wearily and suddenly realised she didn't want to have this argument anymore.

"Don't you have an essay to finish or something?" she asked, grumpily.

Ron shrugged. "Four, actually."

"Well, don't you think it would be a good idea to be nice to me if you want my help?"

He laughed again. "Probably! But come on, you wouldn't want me to get chucked out, would you? Who would you do prefect rounds with if I got expelled?"

She bit back a smile. "Well, Neville, obviously."

Ron feigned shock. _"Neville?"_

"Yes, well, I'd get the job finished a lot _quicker_, certainly."

"Yeah, but it'd be a lot more boring."

"Oh, I don't know," she teased. "At least I wouldn't have to listen to him banging on about Quidditch all the time."

Ron shook his head in mock-disbelief. "I can't believe what I'm hearing… I'm _hurt_, Hermione."

"_And _he wouldn't threaten to punch Malfoy for saying nasty things about me."

Her heart beat a little faster as she said this. It felt dangerously close to a question, the question she'd been wanting to ask for a long time.

But Ron merely chuckled. "Oh, I dunno, have you _seen_ Neville when he gets angry? I wouldn't cross him! Besides, he's wanted to smack Malfoy for even longer than I have!"

She forced a laugh, waited a beat, more in hope than expectation, then shook her head and sighed.

"Come on, we'd better go in. This evening's taken even longer than it does when we're _actually_ doing rounds."

"Sorry," grinned Ron, sounding anything but. "Better had, I suppose. That Charms essay won't write itself." His eyes widened. "Hey, that's an idea! They've already got self-inking quills, why not _self-writing essays? _I could suggest it to Fred and George! They'd make a _fortune!" _

Hermione glared at him. "If you think I'm going to rise to that, then you're very sadly mistaken."

"Rise to what?" asked Ron, innocently. "Don't you think it's a good idea?"

"No," said Hermione, severely. "It's a _terrible_ idea."

"You're just scared I might get better marks than you for a change."

"What, with _Fred and George _in charge?" retorted Hermione, scathingly. "Remind me, how many OWLs did they get last year again? Threebetween them, wasn't it?"

Ron nodded. "Something like that. Still three more than I'll probably get, mind."

"Well, it will be if you don't hurry up and finish your Charms essay."

"You _are _gonna help me with it, though?" he asked, glancing at his watch and panicking slightly. How in the name of Merlin was it nearly eleven o'clock already?

"I said I would, didn't I?"

"Alright, I was only asking!"

"That doesn't mean I'm going to actually _write_ it, you know. I'll read it through for you and make some notes, but that's all."

"Well, that's exactly what I _asked _you to do! I didn't ask you to _write_ it for me, did I?"

"Fine, well, that's what I'll do, then."

"Fine!"

_"Fine!"_

_"_Well, come on, then," he grumbled. "I do actually want to get _some_ sleep tonight, you know."

Hermione bit back a sarcastic retort and turned her attention back to the door in front of her.

_"Mountain troll!"_

"Excuse me?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "It's the _password, _Ronald."

A crimson flush crept up Ron's cheek. "Oh."

They both exchanged slightly embarrassed smiles, and he mumbled an apology and gestured to the open portrait hole in front of them for her to go in first. Hermione hesitated on the threshold. She felt a strange kind of disappointment that the evening, although hardly what you might call an unqualified success, was finally, definitely over. Once she walked through that door, all hope was gone for another day.

Just then Ron started to laugh, and she turned and raised her eyebrows quizzically at him.

"What's so funny?"

Ron shook his head. "Nothing, it's just… _well_..."

He glanced up, their eyes met, and her stomach performed a familiar little somersault.

"You do realise we're gonna have to do this all over again tomorrow?"

"Oh," she said, looking away quickly to hide her smile. "Oh, _no."_

"Thanks to _Malfoy_, of course," added Ron, sounding oddly chirpy considering he was being made to do something incredibly boring two nights in a row. _"Git."_

"It really is terribly unfair," agreed Hermione, silently thanking Malfoy for the first and no doubt only time in her life. "I might even have a word with Professor McGonagall about it."

"Yeah," said Ron, privately enjoying the thought of Malfoy's angry, pointy little face if he ever found out how his plan had backfired, and how secretly pleased Ron actually was about the whole thing, even though it meant yet another evening he wouldn't get to spend practicing his Keeping skills or writing long overdue essays. "Yeah, good idea. He shouldn't be allowed to get away with it."

"No, he shouldn't," said Hermione, happily.

Ron shot her a sly sideways glance. "God, he really is a massive wanker, isn't he?"

Hermione punched him in the arm.

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_Author's Note_:

_I do enjoy writing these back and forth conversations between them, I must say. Rather like the couple themselves though, I sometimes find it hard to stop (and even harder not to have them suddenly throw themselves at each other and snog each other silly!)_

_Coming up next: yes, it really __**is **__My Favourite Chapter. _

_Hope you enjoyed reading it, and please take the time to leave a review and help this story reach the magic 500 mark! In return I promise that I will take the time to reply to each and every one of you. And if I don't, you can punch me in the arm. Not my writing arm, though._

_PB x_

_p.s: I've absolutely no idea whether prefects can give out detentions or not, but I couldn't find any proof to the contrary, so I've decided they can. One of the joys of writing fanfiction: if I say it's true, it's true!_

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	12. Chapter 12: Snow

_Author's Note__:_

_Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, thanks to all those people who wished me well in finding somewhere to live (although unfortunately I'm still living in my friend's spare room, which is obviously not ideal), thanks to those people who sent me lovely emails asking nicely when Chapter 12 might be finished (except the person who sent one that consisted solely of the words "poke... poke... come on!", who can sod off), and thanks to everyone who's been patient and understood that sometimes life gets in the way of fiction. Hopefully you will all be delighted to hear that this chapter is an extra-long one! _

_Oh, and one last thing... you know when I said this story was a fluff-free zone? Well, this was the chapter I had in mind... _

_PB x_

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Chapter Twelve: Snow

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Hermione glanced at the clock for the umpteenth time that hour. This was ridiculous, why was she so nervous? It was only Quidditch, for heaven's sake, and it wasn't even a proper match. She should be using the time to revise for exams - they were only seven months away, after all - but she was too restless to concentrate properly, so instead she had spent the evening knitting yet more hats for the House Elves. Ron had said cuttingly that they looked more like woolly bladders than hats, which helpful remark had led to Hermione not speaking to him for an entire morning. Honestly, sometimes she wondered why she even -

---

She admonished herself silently. She would not get annoyed about this again. Anyway, she was getting much better now. She could do patterns and bobbles and everything. In fact, if Ron wasn't careful, he might find a lovely bright pink knitted bobble hat in his stocking come Christmas morning. Maybe even with a matching _scarf_, she thought, wryly, allowing herself a small smile at the thought of how badly it would clash with his hair.

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When she was eight, Nana Granger had bought her some knitting needles for Christmas and tried to give her lessons, but she had never quite managed to get the hang of it, much to her frustration. She remembered bursting into tears and throwing the ball of wool in Nana's face, before running off to hide in her bedroom. Nana had tutted loudly and called her a spoilt little madam. In retrospect, it probably wasn't her finest hour, but then finding out there was something she _wasn't _good at (apart from sport, which didn't count) had been rather a shock to the system. She wasn't used to criticism, and she _certainly_ wasn't used to failure.

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She had refused point blank to have any more lessons after that, told Nana it was "boring", although she was well aware that wasn't the real reason she didn't want to do it anymore. It had been a humiliating experience all round, especially when she had overheard Nana telling her Dad that it wasn't natural for a child to spend all her time shut up in her room with her head in a book, and that perhaps if they made her go outside and play in the fresh air with the other children more often, she wouldn't be such an "awkward, uncoordinated little girl". Nana Granger had what her mother used to refer to as an "acid tongue".

---

Eight years on, with the advantage that her previous difficulties could largely be overcome with magic, she was finding knitting both oddly addictive and surprisingly relaxing. One of the things she enjoyed the most about it was that it gave her mind a well-earned break from her punishing revision schedule. Tonight, though, it wasn't helping her relax at all. She put her knitting down in her lap, sighed, and checked her watch again. Why was it taking so long? Maybe there were a lot of people trying out. She hoped not. She'd never seen Ron play before, so she had no idea if he was any good, but obviously he'd have a statistically higher chance of making Keeper if less other people were trying out too. It was so frustrating, being stuck up here and not knowing what was going on. She understood why he didn't want her there, but still...

---

Ron had admitted to her that he was secretly glad Harry had got himself detention and wouldn't be able to watch the Keeper trials ("If I'm going to mess it up, the less people watching the better.") Hermione had asked him if he would rather she didn't go either, and he had readily agreed, much to her disappointment. Couldn't he have made an exception, just for her? Alright, so maybe Quidditch wasn't exactly her "thing", but friends were supposed to support friends in what they did, weren't they? Whether that happened to be playing Quidditch, or making a stand against the oppression of House Elves. She had considered sneaking down to the pitch anyway, reasoning that if she stood right at the back of the stands he wouldn't be able to see her. After all, if he failed, she just wouldn't tell him, but if he got on the team, he would be happy that she had seen his hour of triumph.

---

In the end, her sense of morality kept her from going - she had made a promise and she would not break it - but the wait was agonising. She wished there was someone else here to talk to, for no other reason than to distract herself from what was going on out on the pitch, but Harry was in detention and everyone else was out watching the trials. She was almost the only person left in the Gryffindor common room, apart from a few other swots and Goths who weren't interested in Quidditch. If Ron did fail, he was going to have to do it in front of the entire House, whether he liked it or not.

---

She still didn't really understand why Ron hadn't told her. He'd told Harry (although only because Harry had caught him coming back from practice with his broomstick), and Harry had let it slip to Hermione the next day, much to Ron's obvious dismay. Why hadn't he wanted her to know? Did he think she would tease him about it? Did he think she would _laugh? _He ought to know her better than that by now. She couldn't help but feel a little hurt that he hadn't wanted to share with her something that was obviously really important to him. Didn't she tell her friends everything? Well… maybe not _everything_…

---

Finally, just as she was nodding off by the fire, the door burst open and a cacophony of noise announced the return of the rest of Gryffindor House. She jumped to her feet and her knitting fell to the floor, but she hardly noticed. Her heart beating rapidly, she searched the crowd for a familiar flash of bright red hair. _There!_ No, that was George. Seamus, Lavender, Parvati, Colin… And then she saw him, talking to Fred and gesticulating wildly, laughing and smiling. Her heart performed a small somersault. Did that mean…? Oh, please let him have got on the team. _Please. _

_---_

She stood by the sofa and waited for him to see her. He was still surrounded by people wanting to congratulate him. _Leave him alone_, she thought.

"Ron!" she called, weakly, but her voice barely carried above the chatter.

Finally, he saw her, and barrelled his way through the crowd to where she was standing. His momentum was such that for half a thrilling second she thought he was going to throw his arms around her, but at the last moment he seemed to change his mind, and instead merely gave her a swift and awkward one-armed hug, the kind boys give each other so no-one thinks they're gay.

"I did it!" he told her, "I'm Keeper!"

"That's brilliant!" she gasped, still rather breathless from the unexpected physical contact, "I knew you would!"

Ron shrugged, happily. "Well, you're the only one that did, then. I don't think Fred and George thought I had a chance in hell. Nor did I, come to think of it." He chuckled, obviously too happy to care. "Where's Harry? Is he back yet?"

She shook her head. "Still in detention."

"Ah, well. I'll tell him when he gets - _yeah, thanks!" _he called across the room to someone who had congratulated him, giving them the thumbs up. _"What? Yeah, I know! Fred's gone to get some Butterbeers from the kitchen!"_

"I wish I'd come to watch you now," she told him, trying to get his attention back to her again. "I missed your big moment."

Ron just shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

_It does_, she thought. "I'll come and watch your first match, then. Only if you want me to, of course," she added, hastily.

He beamed at her. "Yeah, that'd be brilliant. You can see me save my first goal! Oh, God, I still can't believe it, this is so _cool! _Nothing good ever happens to me, so this is just… _fantastic!" _

His exuberance and happiness were infectious, and she was suddenly seized with the urge to lean up and kiss him on the cheek. If she was going to do it, this was likely to be her only chance. And it was just a kiss on the cheek, after all, it didn't _mean _anything. She just wanted to know what his skin felt like under her lips. She'd been wondering for so long, _so long_, and maybe this was finally the moment.

"I mean, first prefect and now this! What next?" He nudged her and grinned. "Maybe I'll pass all my exams, what d'you reckon?"

"Maybe you will," she said, weakly. She couldn't do it while he was still looking at her. She'd have to wait until he looked away and then do it - quickly, before he had a chance to react.

He roared with laughter. "Yeah, right! I won't hold my breath! Hey, I'll have to write to Mum and Dad, they'll be really pleased!"

"They'll be really proud of you."

"Yeah," said Ron, frowning slightly, as though the idea of his parents being proud of him was a completely alien concept. "I suppose so. Although they've already had four sons on the team, so I don't suppose it'll be much of a big deal. Still," he went on, cheering up at the thought, "At least all that money they spent on a broomstick hasn't been completely wasted, eh? Hey, maybe I should thank McGonagall as well. After all, if she hadn't made me a prefect, they'd never have bought me one."

"Oh," said Hermione, realising something. "So is that why you asked them for a broomstick? Because you knew you wanted to try out for the team?"

Ron shrugged. "Yeah, well, I thought it would be worth a shot. I wasn't likely to get a chance otherwise, was I? Brooms are expensive."

Hermione frowned. So he'd known he wanted to do this for months and hadn't told a soul about it. She didn't really know what to think about that. She'd always thought of Ron as pretty much an open book, but now suddenly there was a whole new, undiscovered chapter she hadn't read yet. She stared up at him with a slight sense of awe and new-found interest. How had she not realised he was keeping secrets from them? What else was going on in there? The urge to lean up and kiss him became stronger than ever. No-one was even looking at them, and if they did see, they wouldn't think anything of it. It would just be an innocent, friendly kiss on the cheek, nothing more. Well, as far as _they_ were concerned, anyway.

---

She tried the words out for size in her head. _Listen, Ron - well done. _It should be so easy. All she had to do was lean up, kiss him, pretend it meant nothing, pretend her heart wasn't racing at a hundred miles an hour…

_Listen, Ron - well done. Listen, Ron - well done. Listen, Ron -_

"Excellent, looks like Fred's back with the drinks! I'm gonna get a Butterbeer. Do you want one?"

"Oh! Er… no, thank you. Maybe later."

"Okay, cool. See you in a bit, then."

"Yes, okay. Listen, Ron, I -"

She glanced up, and their eyes met. His pale blue eyes were shining eagerly back at her, and she wavered in the headlights of his gaze.

"Er..."

No, it was no good, she couldn't do it. Not with him looking at her like that, anyway.

"I just wanted to say..."

"Spit it out," said Ron with a grin, and she couldn't help smiling herself.

"Shut up! I just wanted to say... well done, that's all."

"Thanks!" he beamed, gratefully. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder, threw her a smile, and went over to where Seamus and Dean were waiting to clap him heartily on the back and shake his hand. Hermione watched him go, not sure whether to laugh or cry. There was an opportunity she would probably never get again.

---

* * *

---

Ron took the bottle of Butterbeer from Seamus's hand and tried to tune in to his friends' conversation, but his head was buzzing too much to pay proper attention. He still couldn't quite believe what had just happened. He was the new Gryffindor Keeper. He was on the team. This was _brilliant_. This was by far the best thing that had ever happened to him, in fact.

---

And even better, nobody could possibly say he'd only got on the team because he was mates with Harry, or because his brothers were Beaters. He'd saved five out of seven goals today. _Five! _It was more than he could possibly have hoped for, especially as before the trials he'd been so sick with nerves he'd puked up most of his dinner in a hedge behind the changing rooms. Not that he'd ever tell anyone that, of course. And there had been six other people trying out for the Keeper position, and a couple of them had even been pretty good, but not quite good enough, obviously. _Ha! _

---

He was somebody now. Some_thing_. A Quidditch player, like Viktor Krum. Somebody Hermione might actually consider worthy of her attention. He felt as though his chest might burst with happiness. It had only taken him fifteen and a half years to find something he was good at, too. Maybe he was just a slow developer. Maybe it wouldn't matter if he didn't pass all his exams now, because he could just play Quidditch for a living instead. Maybe - he hardly dared even _think_ it in case he jinxed it - maybe one day he might even get to play for the _Cannons!_ Oh, wow, that would be just _awesome_. God, was this what Viktor Krum felt like _all the time? _If it was, he definitely wanted more of it. He'd quite happily listen to people telling him _"well done, Ron!" _and _"you were great!"_ for the rest of his life, in fact.

---

Probably the only other time he'd been the centre of attention like this was when he'd nearly got stabbed by Sirius Black in third year, and that was hardly something to be proud of. Oh, wow, something _nearly_ happened to him! Of course, as it turned out later, he hadn't actually been in any danger at all. Fifteen and a half years on the planet and the best he could say about his achievements as a human being was that something had once _nearly_ happened to him, but not really. Oh yeah, and he was sort of alright at chess. _Woo-hoo. _

---

This, though, was different. This was a _proper _achievement, something to be really proud of, something he could look back on in years to come and say, yes, I did that. I used to be on the Quidditch team. I was Quidditch _Captain_, actually. No, no, he mustn't get his hopes up too much. But then, why not? Oliver Wood had been Captain _and _Keeper. Why _shouldn't_ he be Captain one day? Fuck, that would be awesome. He'd be Quidditch Captain and Hermione would be Head Girl. She could ride his broomstick any time.

He choked on a laugh and accidentally inhaled half his drink up his nose, and Seamus had to give him several hard whacks between the shoulder blades before he could recover.

"You alright there, mate?" asked Dean, laughing at Ron's scarlet face.

"I'm fine," he gasped. "Just... went down the wrong way, that's all."

Oh, yeah, he was fine, alright. Better than fine. Absolutely bloody brilliant, in fact.

"Careful," said Seamus, in a tone of mock-alarm, "We can't have our new Quidditch hero choking to death before the season's even started, can we?"

They all laughed, and Ron's head swam slightly. _Quidditch Hero_. Now _that_ was a title he could get used to. Ron Weasley, _Quidditch Hero. _Not just Fred/George/Bill/Charlie/Percy's little brother anymore. Not just That Lanky Ginger Kid who hangs around with Famous, Brave Harry Potter and Most Brilliant Witch of Her Age Hermione Granger. Somebody in his own right for the first time in his life. Yeah, he could definitely get used to this.

"Yeah," agreed Dean, slapping him heartily on the back, "We're relying on you to win it for us this year, you know!"

"Yeah, no pressure or anything," added Seamus, and they all laughed again.

Ron beamed back at them, a wonderful warm and fuzzy feeling suffusing his entire body that he didn't think had anything to do with the half a bottle of Butterbeer he'd just drunk. And spilled down himself. _Shit_, he thought, stifling a laugh, _I really hope Hermione didn't see that_. His gaze wandered automatically across the heads of the crowd, searching for that familiar head of bushy brown hair.

---

* * *

---

Hermione looked away quickly, her cheeks burning. Had he seen her watching him? Oh, _God! _But she could not look away for long. It was like there was an irresistible force dragging her eyes to him. She pretended to be looking towards the door for Harry but allowed her gaze to pass briefly over Ron on the way. He was laughing about something with Seamus and Dean and no longer looking in her direction, but at least it meant she could carry on watching him without him noticing.

---

He looked rather stunned, as though he still couldn't quite believe what had just happened. Stunned, but utterly elated, and so happy, it was practically radiating from within him. No, it was more than just happiness. It was _pride_. For the first time in the four years she'd known him he was happy because of something he'd done or achieved himself. Possibly for the first time in his whole life, she suddenly realised. Even when he'd been made prefect his moment of glory had been ruined because everyone had teased him mercilessly about it. How no-one in their right mind would have made him a prefect, how he was "the new Percy", how they'd all assumed it would be Harry who got the badge, not him. She'd done a poor job of hiding her own shock, she remembered guiltily, and the half-defensive, half-resigned look on his face had said it all.

---

But then, Ron had never wanted to be a prefect in the first place. It was something that had _happened_ to him, rather than something he'd wanted for himself. Even four months later, he still didn't seem to be able to make up his mind whether it was something to be proud of or not. But there was absolutely no doubt how he felt about _this_. It was written all over his face for everyone to see. He was so happy he couldn't stop smiling, and it made her smile too.

----------------

----------

---

* * *

**---**

**----------**

**----------------**

He hurled his broomstick to the ground and stumbled blindly away from the pitch, wanting to just find a dark cave somewhere and hide from the world. Bitter tears stung his cheeks, but he made no attempt to wipe them away. Gradually the noise of the crowd died away, but he stumbled on, determined to get as far away as possible. If he could walk through the gates and keep on walking forever, he would. Never come back.

---

The words of that song kept going around on a loop in his head. Hundreds of faces, the crowd as one singing, laughing and jeering at him...

_"Weasley was born in a bin_…"

They had won, but it had been no thanks to him. Harry had saved them. Harry had won the match. Of course he had. Harry could actually _play Quidditch_. How deluded had he been to think he was actually good enough to play on the team?

---

Snow was falling in thick flakes now but he barely noticed. Let it snow. Let him disappear into the white void. Anything was better than going back to the castle and facing them all. Everyone would hate him. His brothers would disown him. Harry would never speak to him again. Hermione would - well, Hermione would be all sympathetic and act like it was no big deal. "It's only Quidditch," she would say.

---

Only Quidditch! What did she know? Nothing! She could barely get on a broom! Could probably still do a better job than him, mind you. A blind person with crippling vertigo and no _hands_ could probably do a better job than _him_.

---

And he was supposed to be from a family of good Quidditch players, it was supposed to come _naturally_ to him! Charlie had been team Captain. Charlie could have played for England, everyone said so. Fred and George were widely acknowledged as two of the best Beaters Gryffindor had ever seen, probably because they had a kind of telepathy that non-twins couldn't possibly hope to match. Even Percy would probably do a better job, and he was _rubbish_.

"_He always lets the Quaffle in..."_

To think he actually thought that getting on the team would make Hermione more interested in him! What had he expected, that he was suddenly going to become irresistible just because he could save a few goals? Except, as it turned out, he couldn't even do that. How many goals had he let in today? He'd lost count after seventeen. He was the worst Keeper in the history of the world. He was a laughing stock.

_---_

How could he possibly go back there and face them after this? If he could DisApparate out of here right now, he would. Go and hide somewhere and grow a beard, come back in ten years when this was all forgotten. Punch Malfoy and get expelled. They ought to expel him for his atrocious goal keeping. If McGonagall could, she probably would. Angelina _certainly_ would.

_"He cannot save a single thing…"_

_Had _he even saved one goal? What was the point of a Goalkeeper who couldn't even save a _single_ goal? He went over and over every dropped Quaffle, every bungled save, replaying the entire match all over again in his head, reliving every torturous second.

---

The storm was getting worse now, and he could only see about twenty feet in front of him on the path. His lungs were pounding and his thighs stinging from the cold and the effort of walking so fast, but he could not slow down, he had to keep moving, because the momentum was the only thing keeping him from cracking up completely.

_"He cannot block a single ring…"_

Half-blinded by tears and fury, he tripped and lost his footing on the rocky ground, throwing out his hands in panic to stop himself falling, and landing heavily on his hands and knees in the snow. It was the final humiliation. He let out a half-cry, half-yell of anger and misery and shame, then wrenched off his traitorous Keeper's gloves and hurled them as far away from him as he could. "Oh, fuck!_"_ he gasped, as the icy November wind whipped through his hair and made his tears feel like razorblades against his cheeks. "Oh, _fu-"_

He choked on a sob and wiped his eyes furiously, but the tears kept falling.

_"That's why Slytherins all sing…"_

To think he actually thought this might _impress _her! As though he was actually going to compete for her affections with Viktor Krum, International Quidditch Player, World Cup star, idol of millions, rich, talented, popular, famous...

Useless, stupid, pathetic _loser._

Sitting here on his knees in the snow, _crying,_ like a fucking _kid. _

_"Weasley is our King…"_

---

* * *

---

Hermione sat in silence listening to the boys loudly abusing Umbridge, Malfoy, Madame Hooch, Snape, McGonagall, _everyone_… rehashing the game, the argument, the fight, over and over until she tuned them out, sick of the sound of their voices. A book was open on her knee, but it was just a prop, an excuse not to have to join in their conversation. Not that they would have noticed anyway. They were too busy apportioning blame left, right and centre.

---

She would have gone up to bed, but she was too anxious. She knew she wouldn't sleep until she saw him, knew he was okay. Well, maybe not _okay_, exactly. She highly doubted he was going to be okay. But she needed to see him nonetheless.

---

Ron's was the one name they hadn't mentioned in their parade of blame. Perhaps they could not bear to have that conversation. Whether they blamed him or not, she knew Ron would blame himself.

---

It angered her that they seemed to be more concerned about being banned from playing Quidditch than their friend and brother. She wanted to shout at them, "What about _Ron?_ Don't you _care?_ He's supposed to be your _brother!_ He's supposed to be your _friend!" _Instead, she sat there going quietly frantic, looking up every time the portrait hole swung open or the clock struck the hour.

---

To be frank, she thought it rather served them right. Fighting on the pitch! Punching an opposing player in front of a teacher! What did they expect? And what did it matter if they were banned from playing Quidditch for the rest of the season? It wasn't the end of the world. Besides, Harry really should be concentrating on revising for his OWLs at the end of the year. These exams were going to determine which NEWT subjects they could take next year, and thus the rest of their adult lives. They were rather more important than _Quidditch_. Especially, she thought privately, when it caused this much trauma.

---

It had been like watching a slow motion train crash. She had wanted to look away but couldn't, and within minutes found that she had lost track of the progress of the game completely and instead kept her eyes fixed only on Ron. Every missed save, every wild dive, her hopes rising and then sinking inevitably as yet another ball zoomed past him and through the hoops. It was the most agonising match she had ever watched. To think people actually did this for _fun!_ As soon as the whistle had blown for the end of the game she had searched frantically for Ron, but had become caught up in the departing crowd. By the time she had fought her way down to the pitch, he was nowhere in sight. She had waited outside the changing rooms for nearly half an hour in the cold before she finally gave up and came back to the common room, assuming he would eventually do the same. But that was hours ago, and there was still no sign of him.

---

* * *

---

He'd been too upset to be properly aware of the cold, but now the adrenalin and fury had worn off, Ron realised that he was out in the grounds, it was dark and snowing hard, and that when he stood up, he couldn't see the castle at all. He had walked blindly, hardly aware of where he was going, and only knew from the rockiness of the ground that he must be a fair distance away, beyond the lake. He was still too filled with self-loathing to care. At least freezing to death would be painless. You just lay down in the snow, fell asleep, and never woke up again. That sounded pretty good to him right now.

---

Mind you, knowing his rotten luck, he'd get hypothermia, hallucinate that he was really hot and shed his clothes and they'd find him naked and frozen three days later in a snowdrift. Yeah, that would just about do it. If anything could top today's match for sheer humiliation, having Hermione find his body would be it. And his cock would be all shrivelled and tiny from the cold as well. _Awesome._

---

Still, even that would be better than having to walk into the Gryffindor common room and see the looks of contempt on everyone's faces. Knowing that he'd let them all down. Let down the team. Let down the whole _House_. Let down Angelina, whose first match as Captain this was. Let down Harry, and the twins, and the rest of his family. Let down _everyone_. There was nothing else for it. He'd go straight back and tell Angelina he was resigning from the team. No way was he ever playing Quidditch ever again after this. Not even for fun in the back garden at home. _Fun!_ If there was anything in the world that was _less _fun that what he'd just been through, he couldn't think of it. It had been the singularly most humiliating experience of his life.

---

Not that his entire life lately wasn't basically one humiliation after another. He had thought nothing could be worse than that time he'd temporarily taken leave of his senses and asked Fleur Delacour out in front of half the school. Jesus, he could almost still hear the laughter ringing in his ears _now_. And then, only a week or so later, there'd been a new low, arriving at the Y*** B*** (he still couldn't bring himself to say the words "Yule Ball" out loud as it made him feel sick) in his hideous ancient dress robes, followed by the world's most disastrous date with some girl he'd barely even spoken to before, and who made it quite clear that she thought he'd deliberately worn the worst clothes possible just to show her up, and then gone off with the first boy who asked her to dance within about ten minutes of their arrival.

---

What else? Oh, yes, the moment he had realised that not only had Hermione _not_ been lying about having a "real" date for the ball, as he had secretly suspected, but that her date was none other than Viktor Krum, International Quidditch Star! Which, coincidentally, was the _exact_ moment he realised that he was jealous as hell about it. His timing, as always, was lousy almost to the point of hilarity.

---

And _then_, as if the evening hadn't been _quite_ appalling enough, there had been the giant row with Hermione afterwards. He had at least been able to block this largely from his memory, mostly because he had been so angry he'd hardly heard what he himself was saying, let alone her equally furious replies. He _may_ have suggested that Viktor had only asked her out so he could use her to spy on Harry. He might even have accused her of "fraternising with the enemy". Whatever he had said, it hadn't been good.

---

He sighed, and leant down to rub his aching shins. His limbs were starting to stiffen up now the adrenalin had worn off, and he didn't think he'd ever felt so exhausted in his entire life. He hadn't slept a wink last night, far too nervous about his first match, his one big chance to show everyone - _her_ - that he wasn't a complete loser after all. He hadn't been able to eat any breakfast either, his stomach churning so badly he knew that if he forced something down now, it would only come back up again later, probably in the middle of the match. Everyone kept coming up and telling him "good luck" and "you'll be great, don't worry", but none of it helped. It had felt like he was walking out there to face his doom, not about to play a bloody Quidditch match. If he could have Apparated out of there he would have. And let's face it; running away could hardly have made them hate him _more_.

---

What on _earth _had made him think he could actually play Quidditch? Especially on a Cleansweep Eleven, when practically every other player on all the teams had at least a Nimbus! He shouldn't have wasted his parents' money on it. They could barely afford it, and he'd known that when he asked for one. Hadn't stopped him, though. Guilt coursed through him once more. He might as well sell it, at least get some of their money back. Let someone who could actually play Quidditch have it. He was a disgrace to the broom. What had Malfoy called it? "That mouldy old stick"? Yeah, well, that mouldy old stick was still the best his parents could afford, and what use had it been? None whatsoever. He might as well have carried on playing on the crappy school broom for all the difference it had made. Might as well have just thrown the sodding money down the drain, too. He could have the best broom in the world and it still wouldn't change the fact that he was shit at Quidditch.

---

* * *

---

Hermione had already chewed the fingernails of one hand practically to the bone and was well on the way to destroying the other. Should she say something? Go and tell Professor McGonagall? _No_. A search party and yet more unwelcome attention would be the last thing Ron wanted. She would have gone to look for him herself, but she knew him well enough by now to know that he wouldn't want company. He was probably off hiding somewhere, waiting for them all to go to bed and hoping to sneak up to his room unnoticed. Well, even if it was what he wanted, he wasn't going to get it. She would sit here until _dawn_ if she had to.

---

He hadn't even turned up for _dinner!_ The idea of Ron missing dinner was so shocking she had hardly been able to eat anything herself for worrying. Things must be really bad if he couldn't even face food. Or perhaps it was just that he couldn't face the jeers and pity and disapproval of the entire school. She had taken a slice of cake for him, wrapped it in a napkin, and put it in her bag. He'd want something to eat later, she was sure of it. He hadn't eaten anything since breakfast, after all. And actually, now that she thought about it, she wasn't at all sure he'd eaten anything _then_.

---

She had even made Neville go and check the boys' dormitory, just in case Ron had used the opportunity to sneak back while everyone was at dinner, but his bed was empty. She hadn't really expected it to be otherwise. He'd be doing what he always did when he couldn't cope with things: go quiet, go and hide, and go over and over things in his head until they overwhelmed him. He was probably hiding in an empty classroom somewhere beating himself up about it right now, in fact. Or at least, she _hoped_ that was where he was.

---

She glanced up at the snow swirling in the darkness outside the common room window, and then automatically, for the hundredth time, at the clock. A jolt of fear went through her. He couldn't possibly still be out in the grounds after all this time, could he? _Could he? _

---

* * *

---

Ron lifted his eyes to the grey sky above him. Snow was falling again. Thick, heavy snow that he knew would soon carpet the hillside. He gave an involuntary shiver. Jesus, but his hands were cold. Actually, not so much cold as completely numb. Maybe he had frostbite. _Shouldn't have thrown away your bloody gloves then, should you_, he thought wryly. He lifted them to his eyes and surveyed them, frowning, almost as though they belonged to someone else. Useless bloody hands. Might as well chop them off for all the good they'd been today. He'd never have to write another essay; that would be a bonus. But then, he'd never get to touch a girl's chest, either. And it would be kind of hard to get any wrist action without any _wrists_…

---

He dug his hands into his pockets to warm them up, and hit something small and round and hard. Pulling it out, he saw that it was a small, fluff-covered biscuit. He was often so nervous before practice that he couldn't face breakfast, so he'd stuff a couple of biscuits into his pockets, in case he felt hungry while he was out on the pitch. Practice could last for hours, especially before a big game like today's, and it was hard to concentrate when you were hungry. His stomach gave a low grumble at the thought of food and he wondered vaguely if he had missed dinner. Probably. He didn't wear a watch during matches because it was likely to get smashed by a stray Bludger if he did. It could be any time from four to - well, _tomorrow_.

---

Maybe if he just kept walking, into the Forbidden Forest, something would eat him. Or climbed over the gate and just kept walking full stop. He wasn't old enough to Apparate, so he'd have to get the emergency Knight bus, but where would he go? He couldn't go home, Mum would just send him straight back again. The wizarding world was a small one, and anywhere he went someone would be bound to know either him or one of his family. He didn't have any money on him either. And, he suddenly remembered with a groan, his normal clothes and - more importantly - his _wand_ were still in his bag back in the changing room, which was almost certainly locked up for the night.

---

Maybe he could go and try and live rough in London or something. Yeah, with no money, no wand, and a shit second-hand broomstick he could probably only get a few Galleons for now, especially since it had hardly been covered in glory on its first and only public outing. And then what? Could he really survive in the Muggle world? He was fifteen (although he could probably get away with pretending to be older, one of the advantages of being tall for his age), he had no qualifications so nobody was going to give him a job, and he didn't even know basic things like how the money worked or who the Prime Minister was. Jesus, they'd think he'd escaped from the mental ward.

---

The only other option he had was to throw himself on the mercy of Bill, who would no doubt march him straight back to the Burrow, or Percy, who at least might have some sort of sympathy for Ron's situation, what with being pretty much a social outcast himself these days. Oh, or prostitution. Well, he thought, dryly, that was probably the only way he was ever going to get any action after today. Not with any of the girls at _this _school, anyway. He was going to be Ron Weasley, the boy who "cannot save a single thing" for the next two and a half years. Probably for the rest of his life, in fact.

---

Those Slytherin bastards and their bastard song! He might have stood a chance if it hadn't been for that, might have been able to pull himself together enough to at least save a couple of goals. Save a tiny pathetic bit of dignity. But it was just relentless, and it got louder and louder until he couldn't think straight, until it was all he could hear, the song, the jeering, the laughter…

---

It was Malfoy, he thought bitterly. He knew it was Malfoy, as sure as he knew he was never getting on another broomstick after today's humiliation. He could just imagine them all sitting around in the Slytherin common room practically pissing themselves with laughter as they thought up new lines for the song. _Shit_, he realised suddenly, they must have been _practising_. They all knew the words, every last one of them. They must have been planning this for days. Weeks, even. Fuck them. _Fuck _them! Bastards, the lot of them. And Malfoy was the biggest bastard of them all.

---

He had never hated anyone more than he hated Malfoy at this moment. Oh, he had hated him before - hated him solidly for the last four years, in fact. That time he had called Hermione a Mudblood. That time he said that if the monster killed somebody, he "hoped it was Granger". All the terrible things that Malfoy had ever said to him came rushing into his head. Every snide little remark and dig about his family, every time he'd wanted to smash Malfoy's teeth down his throat…

_"Oh, look, Weasley, Potter's spotted some money on the ground!"_

_"My father says all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."_

_"I heard your family all live in one room – is that true?"_

"_Did you have to bribe someone to get on the team, or were all the good players on holiday that week?"_

"_You should melt down that prefect badge, Weasley; it'd probably be worth more than your entire house."_

_---_

This, though, was different. This was a whole new level of vindictiveness. If Malfoy were here now...

---

If Malfoy were here now, if it was just the two of them alone out here in the snow, he would beat the bastard to a bloody pulp with his bare hands. At least if he got sent to Azkaban for murder he wouldn't have to walk into the Great Hall tomorrow in front of the whole school, face the boos and jeers of the Slytherins, and worse, the disappointment of his friends.

---

His fists clenched in anger and something rough-edged and hard dug into his palm. He looked down and realised he was still clutching the tiny biscuit in his hand. The evidence of his failure. He stared at it for a few moments, then snapped, hurled it to the ground and stamped on it, over and over again, until all that was left were a few tiny crumbs in the snow.

---

* * *

---

Hermione felt as though she were going quietly insane. Something was terribly wrong and there was nothing she could do about it. Running to the library would not solve this. There were no answers she could look up in a book, no spell or potion that would make this right again. She wanted to scream, hit out at someone, make them _do_ something, but there was nothing to be done but sit and wait. She tried not to think about the worst possibilities, tried not to picture him lying at the bottom of a snowy crag with a broken leg, or lost in the blizzard, calling desperately for help.

---

No, she was being silly, he was fine, of course he was. He was just hiding, that was all. Waiting until they'd all gone to bed so he could sneak in without having to see anyone. Nothing really bad had happened. Yet the knot of fear sat heavy in her chest. How long were they supposed to wait before someone decided it was serious enough to go and get Professor McGonagall? Wasn't anyone worried apart from her? Didn't anyone _care?_

---

Right, she decided, if Ron didn't come back by midnight, she would borrow Harry's invisibility cloak and go and find him herself. She frowned. Midnight was such an arbitrary time. Why was midnight any worse than him still not having returned by eight, or nine, or - she checked the clock again - twenty-three minutes past nine, as it was now? It had been dark for hours, and a blizzard was blowing out there! Worse, he didn't even have a coat - or his wand, she suddenly realised, which must still be sitting in the changing rooms with the rest of his things. People could develop hypothermia if they were out in the cold too long. He might have got disorientated in the snow and wandered off into the Forbidden Forest. All sorts of creatures were lurking in there! Acromantula and centaurs and God knows what else!

---

Movement nearby caught her attention and she dragged herself back to the conversation in front of her. Fred was gesticulating angrily about something and she bristled in indignation. If Fred and George gave him a hard time over this, she would have to say something. Make them tell him it wasn't his fault. Not that he would believe them, of course. This was Ron they were talking about. The boy who had once apologised to her for having _freckles. _

---

She smiled to herself, remembering. They'd been in the supermarket at the time, Ron getting all stroppy and defensive about not knowing what lychees were. It was that week he'd come to stay with her in the summer holidays. That fateful week a year and a half ago when she had first thought about -

_Oh._

She had kissed him. This morning, before the match. She had kissed him on the cheek and wished him luck. She'd finally done what she'd been wanting to do for a year and a half, and the ironic thing was that he probably didn't even remember it, after everything that had happened since. He'd barely seemed to know what day it was, in fact. He had looked so miserable, so lost, that she just knew it was the right moment. For once she hadn't stopped to think, to analyse, she'd just walked up to him, told him "Good luck, Ron", stood on tiptoe, and kissed him. _Good luck! _He'd needed more than luck today. He hadn't stood a chance against Malfoy and his nasty, evil, malicious song.

---

Oh, God, that awful _song! _It kept going around on a loop in her head, and she cursed Malfoy for his ability to write a catchy tune. The whole school would be humming it tomorrow. (Even if they disagreed with the sentiments, which, she hated to admit, most wouldn't after Ron's disastrous performance today.)

---

Fred was now miming exactly what he would have done to Malfoy if he'd managed to get hold of him, and Hermione gritted her teeth in anger. What use was violence? Hadn't today taught them _anything? _If you really wanted revenge, as Malfoy had just proved only too well, there were much more inventive and effective ways of doing it than by fighting. And as for blaming Malfoy for their Quidditch ban… He might have egged them on, but he wasn't the one who had thrown the first punch, was he? She disliked Umbridge and her poor teaching methods as much as anyone, but in this case she rather felt they had got what they deserved. Surely they must be able to see that their actions could not have gone unpunished? Alright, maybe a _lifetime _ban was a bit over the top, but still...

---

She sighed. Ron was going to feel even worse when he came back and discovered that Harry, Fred and George had all been banned from the team. He would no doubt blame himself for that too, although she was quite certain from what the others had told her that the fight hadn't been about Ron at all. Malfoy had said some things about Harry's mum and Mrs Weasley, and that was what had made Harry and George snap and thump him. Insulting someone's mother! It was a cheap and easy way to get a rise out of them, and Malfoy had known exactly what he was doing and which buttons to press. He had clearly only said those things to wind them up, angry that his plan hadn't worked and Gryffindor had still won the match. Not that that was much consolation to anyone now. The atmosphere in the common room was more like a funeral than a celebration.

---

If they _had_ fought Malfoy in Ron's defence, she might be more sympathetic. She remembered being in the stands and suddenly realising what they were singing, hearing the words for the first time over the cheering and the jeering and the wind, and her blood boiling with fury. That utter _bitch _Pansy Parkinson, pretending to conduct the crowd like it was a game, as though it was _funny_ to humiliate someone like that in front of the entire school!

---

If either of them had been within reach of her at that moment, if she'd been able to fight her way through the crowd to the Slytherin stand, they'd have found out just how many dark spells Hermione Granger, the girl who never broke any rules, knew and was prepared to use. Ron had stood up for her to Malfoy more times than she could remember. She would not forget this. Malfoy could win the wizarding equivalent of the Nobel Peace Prize and he would still deserve everything that he got. A time would come when she had the chance to punish that little - _bastard_ - and she would make sure she took it. Yes, Draco Malfoy would pay for this; she would make sure of it.

---

* * *

---

Ron stood on the edge of the frozen lake, his hands jammed into his pockets for warmth, wondering vaguely how thick the ice was and if it would hold his weight. He remembered the second task in the Tri-Wizard tournament, being pulled out of the water, looking around for Harry, Hermione already fussing around him with a towel, Fleur plastering him with kisses in thanks for helping to save her little sister, even though he hadn't, not really. It was all Harry, just like always. Harry was the brave, heroic one. Ron hadn't done anything apart from swallow a lot of pondweed.

---

Christ, was that really only February? It felt like a lifetime ago. So much had happened since. Cedric's death, the return of You-Know-Who, Percy leaving home, the move to Grimmauld Place, summer with Hermione, being made prefect, getting on the team… getting thrown _off _the team… He managed the weakest of laughs, then frowned and rubbed his forehead. Something was niggling at the back of his brain. Something about the Tri-Wizard tournament, something about Fleur…?

---

Hermione had _kissed_ him, he suddenly remembered. This morning, at breakfast! Not a proper kiss, obviously, just a little good luck kiss before the match. She'd come up to him in the Great Hall and wished him luck and stood on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. A good luck kiss, like his _Mum_ might have given him, he thought with disgust. God, he must have looked really pathetic for her to do that. She probably knew he was going to fuck it up and thought he needed all the help he could get. Not that it had made any difference, of course.

---

Well, that was it then, he thought, resignedly. That little peck on the cheek was as far as he was ever going to get now. After today - well, there was just no way, that was all. And he'd been so dazed before the match he'd barely even registered it, let alone enjoyed it. He reached up and touched his cheek wonderingly with frozen fingers. She had _kissed _him. He tried desperately to remember what it felt like, but it was like catching a snowflake. He couldn't even remember which cheek she'd kissed him on. Maybe he'd just imagined the whole thing. Yeah, that was probably for the best. Pretend it never happened. If only he could pretend the _rest_ of it hadn't happened too, then everything would be fine.

---

_Fine! _Christ! Right now it didn't feel as though everything would ever be fine again. Every time he thought about what had happened, he felt a stabbing pain in his chest like the worst heartburn he had ever experienced. He was used to a bit of physical pain - he had five older brothers, after all - but this was different. The time he broke his leg, the time he accidentally stood on one of his mum's knitting needles and it went straight through his foot, the time the twins pushed him down the stairs… they all paled into insignificance compared to this. It felt as though there was a big clawing hole in his chest, like someone had stuck a fork in there and was just wiggling it around for a laugh.

---

He staggered sideways and retched, but there was nothing left inside of him to bring up. When the dry heaves racking his body had finally ceased, he sat down heavily on the nearest rock, his head still spinning violently.

"Fuck," he gasped, his lungs pounding and his eyes stinging. "Oh, Jesus. Oh, _fuck_..."

---

* * *

---

Hermione was watching the hands of the clock tick slowly round. She kept telling herself that when she got to one minute, five minutes, ten, the door would open and Ron would walk through it. But the door remained resolutely shut, and counting the seconds just seemed to make the time pass even more slowly.

---

Waiting for Ron. That was what she spent half her life doing these days, wasn't it? Waiting for him to notice she was a girl. Waiting for him to realise he liked her as more than just friends. Waiting for him to realise those feelings were more than reciprocated. Waiting for him to make some kind of a move. Ask her out. Kiss her. _Anything_. Even if it did end up being a complete disaster, anything was better than all this _waiting_, wasn't it?

---

She frowned to herself uncertainly. _Would_ they be a complete disaster? She sighed, and rubbed her temples wearily. Pointless to worry about what was never going to happen; certainly the way things had been going lately. Prefect rounds with him were still fifty per cent the most fun she had all week, and fifty per cent - well, much like Ron himself, utterly infuriating.

---

Those were the times she thought about what Harry had said last month. He had snapped and yelled at them, told them he was sick of them always having a go at each other. She'd been, to say the least, rather shocked by this, and she could tell by the look on his face that Ron was too. She hadn't realised they were that bad. They _weren't_ that bad. _Were_ they?

---

They'd talked about it afterwards and come to the joint conclusion that Harry was talking rubbish. "Total bollocks" had been Ron's rather blunt opinion on the matter, and although she wouldn't have used those _exact_ words, she was inclined to agree with him. Hermione was used to impassioned debate with her parents on the issues of the day, and Ron came from a very large, very loud family where you had to shout to be heard and bickering was practically a way of life. It was _normal_ for them. Harry just didn't understand because he'd grown up in a house where no-one spoke to him except to order him around or tell him off. She was sorry that he'd had such a terrible, dysfunctional childhood, but it didn't give him the right to judge them for their behaviour. And just because he was going through a rough time at the moment, it didn't give him the right to take it out on his friends, either.

---

Lately, though, she'd been thinking about what he'd said and wondering if maybe Harry was right. Was it normal to get so furious with your best friend that you didn't speak for him for half a day? Or find yourself bellowing at each other at the top of your voices in the middle of a lesson, as they had last week? Partly, of course, it was because Ron had been so on edge worrying about the match, but she couldn't blame Quidditch for all of their - _disagreements,_ no matter how much she'd like to.

---

_Bloody Quidditch_, she thought. Thanks to Quidditch, she was spending a lot more time on her own these days, with both Harry and Ron off at practice for whole evenings and afternoons at a time. It wasn't that she was bored - she was an only child, after all, and used to her own company - just that it was much too quiet without them there. Well, without _Ron_ there, anyway. Harry was entirely capable of being quiet for long stretches, whereas protracted silence would just tend to make Ron feel the need to fill it, usually with an inappropriate joke. A quiet Ron, she had come to realise, was never a good sign. He was sulking, or fretting, or both.

---

This week, with his first match as Keeper rapidly approaching, Ron had become noticeably distracted and withdrawn. She kept catching him gnawing at his fingernails and staring vacantly off into space, frowning. When she'd asked him what he was doing, he'd jumped slightly, startled out of his reverie, then retorted, defensively, _"What? _Nothing! _What? _I've_ finished _my bloody essay!" Hermione had protested, rather hurt, that she wasn't nagging, she was just worried, and Ron had massively over-reacted, snapped, _"Oh, whatever!" _and stormed out of the room. She had turned to Harry, who had just shrugged and muttered helpfully, "He's just nervous about the match", as though she wasn't quite aware of that fact already, thank you very much.

---

She sighed. Ron's maddening lack of confidence in his abilities was _not_ going to be helped by what had happened today. No matter how many times they told him it wasn't his fault, she knew he would not believe them. She wouldn't be at all surprised if he came straight back and told Angelina he was resigning for the good of the team. Falling on his sword. It was a very Ron thing to do.

---

She smiled slightly to herself and shook her head. Sometimes she wanted to just grab him by the shoulders and shake him. And sometimes she just wanted to grab him and make him shut up by, ahem, _other_ means...

---

* * *

---

Ron was still sitting on the rock by the lake, hugging his knees to his chest and staring numbly at the ground. He felt empty, hollow. He couldn't quite believe how happy he'd been just one short month ago, and now here he was, on what was indisputably the worst day of his life so far, wondering whether drowning would be more painless than freezing to death. Mind you, all that joy and optimism he'd felt at making the team had lasted, what, two days? As soon as the first match had been announced against Slytherin, he'd become the immediate object of a sustained campaign of psychological warfare. "Got your bed booked in the hospital wing, Weasley?" "Careful when you go out alone at night." "Oh, I'm sorry, did you trip over my foot?"

---

Harry, who'd had four years to get used to this, and whom the insults and threats merely rolled over like water off a duck's back, just shrugged and told Ron not to let them get to him, but it was easy for him to say. There was so much riding on him being a success at this, so much that he couldn't tell Harry about why it was so important to him.

---

He shuddered at the memory of his first proper practice with the team, when it had become horribly apparent to everyone that Ron was not going to suddenly bowl them all over with his fantastic Goalkeeping skills, and that his saving of five goals in the trials had clearly been a fluke. The look on Harry's face afterwards had said it all: "Shit, how do I tell Ron he's rubbish at this?"

---

He should have given up there and then. They'd all suspected it, of course, but at least he could have quit before he could actually _prove_ to everyone how useless he was. Why had he even bothered trying? Of _course_ he was going to be shit! He was still _him_. The same idiot he'd always been, only in a pair of Goalkeeping gloves.

---

A pair of gloves he'd just thrown away in a fit of pique. Even if he could remember where he'd left them, he'd never be able to find them now under all this snow. They were school gloves too, so he'd probably have to pay for a replacement pair. Or rather, his parents would. More of their hard-earned money wasted. He was a disgrace to his family. Percy couldn't play Quidditch either, but at least he was _smart_. And he might be a massive git, but at least he had a decent job that paid good money, which was more than Ron was ever going to manage. Seven months until their final exams and he just knew he was going to fail them all. Of course he was. He failed at everything he ever did, why the hell should _this_ be any different?

---

He'd been kidding himself all along, he saw that now. No-one was ever going to be impressed by this. For God's sake, Charlie was team Captain. Charlie could have played for England. Unless you actually get to play for England, unless you actually win the _World Cup_, you still lose. And Charlie didn't even care! He could have played for England and he threw it all away to go and work with sodding _dragons_, that's how little Charlie cared about it. How could Ron ever win against that?

---

No, nothing he did was ever going to impress anyone, because someone else in his family would always have done it first, or better. He could win the Quidditch Cup tomorrow and Charlie would still have won it three times, _and_ he was Captain. He could get nine Outstanding OWLs and Bill and Percy would always have got more than him, and they were both Head Boy, too. He was only the fourth person in his family to get made a prefect. The fifth person to make the Quidditch team. Nothing he did was ever going to be good enough. He'd have to practically become Minister of Magic before anyone would even notice or care. Certainly before _Hermione_ noticed him, anyway.

---

He had thought, when he been made prefect, that this might finally be something that would impress her, but he'd obviously been kidding himself about that too. The look on her face had said it all, really. "Oh, Harry, how wonderful, I knew it would be you!" Of course she did. Of course she knew it would be Harry. Wasn't it always? And then the look of stunned disbelief on _both_ their faces when Harry told her, no, it wasn't him after all; Ron was the one who'd been made prefect. Harry looking rather shell-shocked, as though he'd been promised something and had it taken away from him. Yeah, well, he was right, wasn't he? It _should_ have been Harry. And then her feeble, embarrassing attempt to cover her shock: "_Oh_. Um... well, that's great, Ron. No, it's not surprising at _all_. Ron's done loads of things, he…"

And then she'd tailed off, apparently unable to come up with even a _single_ reason why Ron should have been made prefect. That's how much she thought of him. Or rather, how little.

---

And the worst thing was, she was right. They were _all_ right, Fred and George and Harry and Hermione and Ginny and Seamus and Malfoy, all those people who said he'd make the world's worst prefect. It should have been Harry, not him. He'd been given an opportunity and all he'd done was prove to absolutely everyone just why they shouldn't have bothered, because he'd only let them down, only fail, just like he did at everything. Even Hermione reckoned that Neville would have made a better prefect than Ron had.

---

Despite all that, though, he _was_ a prefect. And even if he didn't appreciate the badge quite as much as he probably should, at least it was one step towards being the kind of bloke Hermione might actually consider going out with.

---

_Going out with. _Shit_. _Was that why he was doing all this? It suddenly hit him that he didn't just fancy Hermione. It wasn't just that he wanted to know what she looked like under her robes, although that would be a pretty good place to start. No, he wanted more than that. A lot more. _Everything_. She was awesome and brilliant and lovely, and now he could see that she'd always been awesome and brilliant and lovely. He'd just been too thick to realise it; that was all. And now it was too late.

---

He groaned out loud at the thought, and remembered seeing her walking into the Great Hall on Krum's arm. She'd been almost glowing that night. Beaming happily at everyone, but mostly at Viktor, as though she couldn't quite believe her luck. Stupid, really, because it was patently obvious that Krum was the lucky one. And obviously much smarter than he looked, too, because he had seen something in Hermione that Ron hadn't. Well, not until it was far too late, of course. Not until the exact moment when she'd walked through the doors of the Great Hall, in fact. And how had he dealt with this amazing revelation? By starting a huge row with her that had left her in tears and ruined the evening for just about everyone. _Nice_.

---

But then, fucking things up was what he _did_, wasn't it? He'd managed to get on the team and had promptly proved himself to be the worst Keeper Gryffindor had ever had. If it hadn't been for Harry saving the Snitch like that they would have lost by an embarrassingly huge margin, and it would have been all his fault. Christ, they could hardly have done worse if he hadn't been there at all, or played with his arms tied behind his back. In fact, if they'd played with six players instead of seven, they'd probably have had a better chance of winning.

---

Yeah, he was 7 out of 7, just like at home. The one with nothing to offer, the one no-one would miss if he wasn't there. Mr Invisible, plodding along in the background, on the sidelines of the action, never doing anything of any worth, never achieving anything, never impressing or surprising. He should never even have tried. If the history of his whole life so far had taught him anything, it ought to have taught him not to hope for glory, because he'd never achieve it. There just wasn't enough limelight to go around, and most of it was shining on his two best friends. Would anyone even notice if he didn't go back? What was he _for? _What was the _point? _

---

Still, if today had proved anything, it was that being invisible was better than being a public object of ridicule. Well, he'd learned his lesson. He wasn't special, he wasn't even average, in fact, and there was no point pretending otherwise. The best he could hope for now was that he'd scrape enough OWLs to enable him to not get kicked out of school or have to retake a year - Jesus, imagine being put back a year and ending up in the same classes as his little sister! Better to just leave now and put up with the inevitable parental inquisition than suffer that humiliation.

---

Of course, his parents would be furious if he got kicked out of school, but it wasn't his fault if he wasn't academic, was it? They had too high expectations, that was all. _He_ knew there was no chance of him doing more than scraping a pass in a handful of subjects, _they_ seemed to be under the mistaken impression that all he had to do was work really hard and he would pass them all with flying colours, like Bill and Percy. Well, he wasn't Bill or Percy. He wasn't _any_ of his brothers, and the sooner they realised that and accepted that there was no point expecting top grades from him, the happier everyone would be.

---

It might even turn out to be a good thing. People had left school at sixteen before. There were always jobs out there, even without any NEWTs. The Ministry always needed cleaners. School was obviously just a waste of time, his and everyone else's, trying to teach him. He'd miss Harry and Hermione of course, but he could still see them in the holidays. They'd probably forget him soon enough, anyway. Maybe if he got a job he could find a place of his own somewhere, like Bill and Percy had. In the real world, nobody gave a shit if you were rubbish at Quidditch and only had a couple of OWLs.

---

He buried his head in his hands and let out a muffled yell of frustration. The real world seemed very far away right now, and so did their exams. He wasn't even sixteen for another three and a bit months, which felt like forever. The end of term and their exams were another three months after that. Seven whole months before he could leave.

---

Yeah, except he _wasn't _going to leave at sixteen, was he? His mum would never let him, for a start. Jesus, seven months was nothing. He had another two and a half years of this. Two and a half years he was going to have to put up with hearing that song every day. Two and a half years of sitting next to Hermione in lessons and knowing that he could never have her.

---

"_Hermione..."_ he murmured aloud. He wondered what she was doing now, if she'd even noticed he wasn't there. Probably in the library, writing an essay that wasn't due in for another three months or something. He smiled to himself at the thought. _Mental_, _that one_. Drove _him_ half-mental most of the time, too. Sometimes doing prefect rounds with her made him want to bang his head against the wall in sheer frustration.

---

And yet... alright, so no-one else managed to wind him up quite as successfully as Hermione did, but no-one else could make him feel a hundred different emotions at once like she did, either. He'd never have imagined it was possible to feel irritation and lust at the same time, for example, but apparently it was. Apparently it was entirely possible to think, "Oh, for the love of Merlin, woman, give it a rest!" at the _exact_ same time as, "God, her tits are _fantastic!" _Or maybe that was just him. Maybe he was just weird.

---

Sometimes, when she was off on one of her long rants about the House Elves, or how did he expect to pass his exams without a proper revision plan, or how being a prefect was an _honour_, blah blah blah, he'd tune her out completely and just stare at her instead, nodding occasionally so she didn't realise he'd stopped listening.

---

That was something else he didn't think he'd ever get bored of - watching Hermione. Even when she was just quietly reading she was endlessly fascinating to watch. _Especially_ when she was reading. It was oddly sexy, actually. The curtain of curly brown hair that made him want to reach across and push it back off her face so he could get a proper view. The occasional tantalising glimpse down her blouse when she leaned forward. The way that she chewed her lip sometimes when she was concentrating and it made him wonder what it might be like to kiss her. The inky fingers that made him want to grab her by the wrist and pull them into his mouth and suck them clean. The brown eyes that only had to flash angrily in his direction to send a lightning bolt of desire through him. All the things she did without even knowing it that had the unfortunate result of making it impossible for him to get up from the table for several minutes. Jesus, was it any wonder he could never get his homework finished on time?

---

Sometimes he would stare at her sitting across from him, that face he knew almost as well as his own, and think that she doesn't even realise how pretty she is, and that maybe someone should tell her, and maybe that person should be him. But now, after today, he'll never know what it feels like to kiss her, or do any of those things, and he'll never be able to tell her how he feels about her.

---

Anger and self-loathing surged through him once more. Why in the name of Merlin had he ever thought this would impress her? She'd gone to the ball with Viktor Krum! _Viktor Krum! _So obviously, after dating an International Quidditch player, she was definitely going to be impressed by him playing Keeper for the _school team_, wasn't she? Especially when he'd failed to save a single goal. Why the _fuck_ would a girl like Hermione, who got top marks in everything, who was pretty damn near _perfect_, in fact, ever be interested in _him? _

---

Oh, yeah, they'd make a great pair, alright. The smartest girl in school and the biggest _loser. _A girl who this time last year had turned up to the Yule Ball with Viktor Krum on her arm, and an idiot who had turned up wearing what looked like a pair of mouldy curtains. A whole year ago. A whole year since he had realised that maybe he wanted to be more than just friends with her. A whole year he'd spent trying to think of new ways to impress her, trying to turn himself into a person she might actually be interested in. What a fucking waste of time. Give it up, Weasley, he told himself. She's never going to look at you with anything other than _pity_ after today. _Ha_. Like she ever was!

---

Tears pricked the backs of his eyes again, and he wiped them away furiously with his sleeve. The Hermione thing… it was a stupid crush, that was all, and he was just going to have to live with it, because hell would freeze over before she ever looked at him in that way. He'd wasted a whole year on this pathetic hope and it was about time he accepted that it was Never Going To Happen. He was a rubbish prefect, and a worse Quidditch player, and if he asked her out now, she'd laugh him out of the castle. You stupid fucking loser, he told himself, bitterly. She doesn't fancy you and is _never_ going to fancy you, and even if you won the Daily Prophet Grand Prize and spent the lot on building her a giant library, she still wouldn't look twice in your direction. No girl is ever going to, not after today. You're a laughing stock. A joke. A total waste of space.

---

Ron Weasley, Quidditch hero! Who was he kidding? Yeah, _really_ heroic, running away and hiding like he used to do when he was little and the twins had upset him. Then he would hide in the broom shed - he didn't miss the irony - or in the long grass in the field behind the house. Eventually Bill or Charlie or his dad would come out and find him and dry his tears, and give him chocolate and make him laugh, and things would be alright again. Christ, he was pathetic. Nearly sixteen years old and hiding out here in the snow feeling sorry for himself and hoping one of his big brothers would come along and make everything alright. Well, things _weren't_ going to be alright. They were never going to be alright again. Nobody was going to come along and wave a wand and make this better. Nobody was out here looking for him, wondering where he was. No, it was up to him and him alone now.

---

He hauled himself upright, dusted the snow off himself, and started trudging as slowly as he could back towards the castle, his feet slipping and sliding through the snow. There was no way out, no alternative, no choice. He was just going to have to go back there and face them. Every single sodding day for the next two and a half sodding years until he could finally leave. Unless, of course, he actually _did_ murder Malfoy and get expelled. He managed the weakest of laughs at this thought. Yeah, if he was going, he was bloody well taking Malfoy with him.

---

* * *

---

"…appeal to Dumbledore? I mean, Umbridge isn't even the Headmistress, is she? She hasn't got the authority to ban us from playing Quidditch!"

Hermione awoke with a start from a daydream in which she had found Ron sitting alone in an empty classroom, closed the door firmly behind her, and told him she'd come to kiss it better. She glared at George, annoyed. Things had just been getting interesting, too.

"That's right!" exclaimed Fred, hotly. "She's not even a real teacher, she's just a Ministry stooge!"

She groaned inwardly. Were they _still_ arguing about this?

"You'd think the Ministry would have better things to do than interfering in a school sports team!"

"_Yes, exactly!" _thought Hermione, furiously. "_The wizarding world is in upheaval! _There's probably going to be a war! Nobody cares about Quidditch! _I_ certainly don't, so why don't you all just _shut up _about it!"

---

Except that Ron, of course, cared about Quidditch very much, and since she cared about _him_… and Harry, of course, although right now his whining and refusal to accept any blame for what had happened was irritating her so much she would happily have punched him. Whether she liked it or not, Quidditch was probably going to remain a large part of their lives, and therefore, by extension, hers too. Even if, as looked increasingly likely, Ron was thrown off the team, there was still the Cannons to occupy the thirty per cent of his brain that should probably be devoted to more useful pursuits, like, ooh, doing his homework on time, or organising a proper revision timetable.

---

She frowned. Last week, with the first match rapidly approaching, and Angelina insisting on long practice sessions nearly every night, Ron had received only 27% in a Charms essay that she knew he'd stayed up half the night to write and was still writing, red-eyed with exhaustion, at breakfast, ten minutes before it was due in. He'd put a brave face on it afterwards, joking that it was a good thing it wasn't Potions or Snape would have taken great pleasure in announcing his low mark in front of the whole class, but she could tell he was rather shaken. 27% meant a straight fail.

----

Really, Ron should not have taken on any more extra-curricular activities in OWL year in the first place. Their revision workload alone was heavy enough, but he also had to deal with their increasingly onerous prefect duties, the DA, and now Quidditch practice several times a week as well. Now that she thought about it she realised his workload was even heavier than hers or Harry's. No wonder he was getting behind with his schoolwork!

---

Guilt coursed through her. Maybe she was a little hard on him sometimes, but only because she _cared. _She didn't want him to fail his exams and get kicked out of school any more than he did. Still, she thought, sadly, after today he wouldn't have to worry about Quidditch distracting him from his studies anymore. Not that that was going to be much consolation. She was sure if he had the choice he would have preferred to drop prefect duties instead, but thanks to Malfoy, that decision had been taken out of his hands. After all, he'd never really wanted to be a prefect - he probably wouldn't be that bothered if they made him give the badge back, in fact - but making Keeper obviously really meant something to him.

---

Well, of course it did! He'd watched his brothers go off to school and play Quidditch for Gryffindor for years, watched Charlie lift the House Cup, and seen all the adulation and glory that came with Quidditch success. He'd probably wanted this since he was eight years old. Half his life, in fact. Whereas Harry had barely got on his first broom before Professor McGonagall was telling him he was a fine natural flyer and making him the youngest Seeker this century. He was pleased, of course, but it couldn't possibly have meant as much to him as it would have done to Ron. For goodness' sake, he'd never even _heard_ of Quidditch until he'd met Ron on the train a few weeks before. It was Ron's dream and Harry had just been handed it on a silver platter without ever even really wanting it in the first place. And then he was just _given_ a brand new top-of-the-range professional-standard broomstick which made him the envy of the entire school. It had all come so easy to him.

---

She glanced across at her other best friend. Harry was still complaining bitterly about how unfair it was that he'd been banned, as though he bore no responsibility whatsoever for what had happened, and Hermione suddenly felt the strong desire to scream at him to just _shut up_. It was always about Harry, wasn't it? Even this, the hour of Ron's greatest humiliation, had somehow become about Harry instead. Harry had punched the rival team's Seeker and got himself and both his team's Beaters banned from playing Quidditch for life, and now that was all anyone was talking about. Ron wasn't even allowed to have any of the attention for the _wrong_ reasons.

---

And it wasn't just Harry, was it? Hermione got told she was brilliant by a teacher at least once a week. She was top of the class in every single one of her classes, week in, week out. Maybe Ron just wanted a tiny fraction of the limelight to shine on him for a change. Well, he'd got it all right, but not in the way he'd imagined.

---

Fred and George were arguing again and she gritted her teeth and looked away from them, towards the window and the black sky beyond. Snow had started to fall again, and her anger melted away in an instant. Oh, God, _Ron_…

---

* * *

---

He came to an abrupt halt, a stab of terror piercing his chest, and for a few moments he almost stopped breathing._ Shit. _What was _that? _Something he couldn't quite make out was blocking the path thirty yards ahead of him, something with black spidery legs sticking up out of the snow…

---

He stood perfectly still for almost a whole minute before a momentary lull in the blizzard revealed the glint of the Quidditch hoops above him, and he realised with a snort of mirthless laughter that the black spidery thing was his broomstick, which was still lying, now half-covered by snow, at the foot of the hoops where he had left it hours earlier. Standing there at the side of the empty pitch everything suddenly came flooding back to him; the roar of the crowd, the jeering, that bloody song, the feeling of being trapped in the middle of some dreadful nightmare he couldn't wake up from. He wrenched his broomstick from the snowdrift and beat it savagely against the ground until some of the anger he felt subsided, then threw it aside in disgust. Breaking the bloody thing wasn't going to help.

---

Funny how quickly the shine could wear off. He remembered the joy and awe he'd felt when he'd first unwrapped it, the incredible feeling of having something _new_, something that was just _his, _and hadn't been battered about for several years by one of his brothers first. All that hope and expectation invested in a bundle of old twigs and wood. Looking at it now he didn't feel any of that joy, he just felt... flat. Defeated. It turned out that just owning something shiny and new wasn't enough, you needed to be _worthy_ of it, too, and he wasn't. You could give a quill to a monkey and it didn't mean he'd know how to write his name.

---

He kicked at the ground in frustration. All those years he'd dreamed of maybe one day flying out onto the pitch in the distinctive orange robes of the Chudley Cannons. Every kid he knew wanted to be a Quidditch player when he grew up, it was just a given if you came from a wizarding family. Well, apart from the weird ones like Percy, who wanted to be Minister of Magic. No-one ever dreamt of working in an office. Or sweeping the pitch, which was probably about as close as _he_ was ever going to come to playing for the Cannons after today.

---

It was a stupid, childish dream, anyway, he thought, bitterly. About as likely to come true as when he was three and decided that, when he grew up, he wanted to be a hamster_. _His family still liked to remind him of that from time to time, usually with an annoying ruffle of his hair and an even more annoying, "Aw, did you want to be a _hamster_, ickle Ronniekins?" Then they'd all fall about laughing while Ron glared at them. The curse of having five older brothers; everyone remembered everything you ever did, even - _especially_ - when you'd really rather forget.

---

Yeah, well, nobody was going to forget _this_ one in a hurry, that was for sure. _He_ certainly wasn't. That was another reason to just get rid of the bloody broomstick; every time he looked at it, he was going to be reminded of the worst day of his entire life, and how badly he'd messed things up. For a moment he was tempted to just leave the hated thing there to be swallowed up by the snow, but the gnawing guilt of wasting his parents' money made him reach down and pick it up again. He let out a long sigh, then started trudging slowly and with a heavy heart back towards the castle, dragging his broomstick roughly behind him.

---

* * *

---

Okay_, _she told herself, if he's not back by eleven, I'll go to McGonagall. It'll be nearly twelve hours by then, and nobody can possibly think I'm overreacting after twelve hours. And at least I'll be _doing_ something and not just sitting here going half-mad with worry. And I don't even care if he hates me for getting the teachers involved and never speaks to me again, just as long as he's alright. And I'll never tell him off for not taking his prefect duties seriously ever again, and I won't let myself get annoyed over all the stupid little things he says and does. And if I _do_ get annoyed, I'll just remind myself of this; sitting here for hours and hours and going out of my mind, just because he's too busy feeling _sorry_ for himself to bother letting me know he's alright. And I won't give him a good hard slap around the face the moment he walks through that door, because, actually, that's what he deserves for putting me through all of this agony. _Us_, I mean. He must _know _we're sitting here wondering where he is and worrying ourselves silly. Doesn't he _care? _It's just selfish, that's what it is! Taking it out on us because of something Malfoy did! It wasn't _us_ who made up that awful song, was it? We're on _his _side. We're his _friends. _He shouldn't need to hide from _us_. He can't possibly think we'd blame him for what happened, surely. Why does he think he has to go through this on his own? Why are boys all so emotionally sodding retarded? Girls would _talk _to each other about something like this! They'd cry on each other's shoulders and hug each other and make everything seem alright again. That's what friends are _for_, isn't it? That's what - that's - he - why -

Oh, _God._ Where the hell _is_ he?

---

* * *

---

If only there was some sort of secret tunnel up to the dorm so he could sneak in unseen, crawl into bed, pull the covers over his head and hide from the world until morning. He didn't want to see anyone, especially his brothers, especially Angelina, especially Harry. Especially _her_. He would have given almost anything for them to have given up and gone to bed, but he knew it was too much to hope for. His two best friends would both be sitting up waiting for him, whether he wanted them to or not. He could almost picture the looks on their faces, the sympathy he didn't want and certainly didn't deserve. That was almost the worst thing of all. The awful pitying look he knew she would give him, the whole speech he could almost recite off by heart. "_It doesn't matter, it's only Quidditch, it's not important, you'll do better next time, don't let them beat you."_

---

Yeah, well, it _did_ matter, actually, and it wasn't "only" Quidditch, it was everything else as well. Quidditch was just one more thing he couldn't do, one more thing he'd failed at. And he wouldn't do better next time either. Hadn't she learned _anything_ in five years? Didn't she know him at _all? _He wasn't suddenly going to pass all his exams or be a fantastic prefect or win the cup. He wasn't going to surprise everyone with some amazing and previously undiscovered talent, because he didn't _have_ any.

---

And as for not letting Malfoy beat him… Christ, it wasn't _about_ Malfoy, couldn't she see that? No-one was to blame for what had happened today but himself. He had deluded himself into thinking he could play Quidditch, and he had been proved spectacularly wrong. Well, he wouldn't make that mistake again. First thing tomorrow he would find Angelina and resign from the team. That's if she didn't sack him first, of course. Either way he was never getting on a broomstick again.

---

_Please_, he begged silently, as the grey mass of the castle loomed into view through the blizzard. _Let the door be locked. _Let the common room be empty. Let everyone have gone to bed. Oh please _God_, let there be no-one there waiting for me. Let it be yesterday again. Let everyone in the entire world have fallen under a memory spell. Let today never have happened. Let the Astronomy Tower fall on me. Let me wander into the path of the Whomping Willow. Let her not look at me with that awful pitying expression on her face.

---

He came to a halt a hundred yards from the castle, and shot an apprehensive glance up at Gryffindor tower. His heart sank. There was a light still shining at the common room window, so it obviously wasn't as late as he had hoped. Either that or they were all waiting up for him so they could tell him he was sacked to his face.

---

He closed his eyes for a few moments and took several long, deep breaths to steel his nerves. His stomach was churning with dread and his legs felt like jelly, but he knew he could put it off no longer.

_Alright, _he told himself, with a resigned shrug. _Might as well get this over with._

---

* * *

---

Hermione, who had long since abandoned any pretence of actually reading her text book, was trying to outstare the treacherous clock. Even Fred and George seemed to have tired of arguing now, and the atmosphere around the fire was one of despair rather than anger. Nobody had spoken for several minutes, and although earlier she had been praying they would all just _shut up_, now that they had the sudden silence was even harder to bear. The only sounds in the common room were the wind whistling down the chimney, the crackling of the fire, and the slow tick tick ticking of the clock. It seemed to almost mock her impatience, and she was seized with the desire to throw something at it and make it stop.

---

She checked her watch, then the clock, then her watch again, just to be sure. Twenty-three minutes past ten. Ron had thirty-seven minutes before her arbitrary deadline was reached and she reported him missing to Professor McGonagall. She fervently hoped it would not come to that, not least because once he was officially missing, she would no longer be able to pretend to herself that he was alright. Besides, he would not thank her for getting the teachers involved, especially if he really _was_ perfectly safe, just sitting in a nice, dry classroom waiting for them all to go to bed.

---

She frowned. Maybe she should just go and look for him. Except the castle was full of little nooks and crannies and secret rooms where someone who didn't want to be found could hide. He could be almost anywhere. _Don't be defeatist_, she told herself, sternly. Who knows him better than you? Who has a better chance of finding him than you do? _Think_, Hermione, _think! _

---

The kitchens? Possibly, but more than likely he'd want to be on his own, not pestered by House Elves with endless offers of tea. Moaning Myrtle's toilet? Again, not likely. A depressed ghost was hardly the best company at a time like this. Oh! What about the prefects' bathroom? A hot flush crept up her cheeks at the thought of bursting in to find Ron in the bath, all wet and pink and wet and – _that really isn't helping, Hermione!_ Anyway, she was sure she remembered him saying he didn't use the prefects' bathroom, although she couldn't quite remember why. But if not there, then _where…? _

---

The answer came to her in a flash. Of _course! The Room of Requirement! _How could she have forgotten? A jolt of excitement tinged with fear coursed through her, but a moment later she knew it was impossible. Even if he _was_ in there, she wouldn't be able to get inside without knowing what he'd asked the room to be. He might have asked it to be a place to hide from them all, and then what was she going to do? Wait all night outside a room where he might or might _not_ be hiding, just on the off chance? Better to stay here, where at least she knew that if she waited long enough, he'd have to walk past her eventually.

---

Okay, she decided, if he's not back by eleven, I'll search all the places he might be myself, and if I still can't find him, _then_ I'll go and tell McGonagall. She glanced at the clock again, although it was more out of habit than hope. Ten thirty-one. Only twenty-nine more minutes to wait. _Only! _It might as well be twenty-nine _hours! _

---

She wondered what she would say to him when he finally did turn up. Platitudes wouldn't help, and nor would demanding to know where the hell he'd been all day. To be frank, it was probably going to take all the restraint she possessed not to just run across the room and throw her arms around him out of sheer relief. Mind you, that might be something of a giveaway. Ron and Harry would be oblivious to any undertones – for goodness sake, Harry hardly even seemed to be aware of the moon eyes Cho Chang kept making at him across the dining room – but she had a curious feeling the twins knew rather more than they let on. They'd known Ron his entire life, after all, and if Ginny knew, then there must be quite a high chance that Fred and George did too. Some of the little jokes and remarks they'd made to or about her and Ron while they were all living at Grimmauld Place over the summer had been a little too close to the truth for her liking.

---

To her immense relief, however, the twins sloped off to bed a little while later, and Harry and Hermione were left alone in the common room at last. She glanced automatically at the clock. Ten to eleven. She could not wait any longer. Harry cleared his throat and gave her a guilty little smile, as though he could read her mind and sensed her disapproval.

"Have you seen Ron?" she demanded, her voice sounding croaky and strange. She realised with shock that it was the first time she'd spoken in hours.

Harry shook his head mutely.

"I think he's avoiding us," she sighed. "Where do you think he -"

Just at that moment, the door to the portrait hole swung open and Ron climbed through, still in his Quidditch things and clutching his broom. He was even paler than usual, and there was snow in his hair.

He stopped dead when he saw them, and immediately glanced towards the stairs to the dormitory as though wondering if he could make a quick getaway.

Hermione's heart gave a lurch, and she jumped shakily to her feet.

"Where you have been?" she wailed.

Ron kept his eyes lowered, unable to look either of them in the face. He gave a hopeless little shrug.

"Walking."

---

--------------

------------------------------

* * *

_Author's Note__:_

_And breathe…_

_I can't believe I've never read another fic that covers this scene, as to me it was one of the most emotional and affecting in the whole series of books. I really think it's absolutely pivotal to what happens afterwards as well, why Ron doesn't make any kind of move for the rest of fifth year, and the underlying reason why the whole Hermione-thinks-I-had-to-take-lucky-potion-to-win-anything-well-sod-her-I'm-going-to-snog-Lavender-instead debacle gets so horribly out of hand. Just think how differently the next couple of years might have gone if Ron had only won this match..._

_Please leave a review if you can because, as I said before, this is my favourite chapter and I'd love to know what you all thought of it. Thanks!_

_PB x_

* * *


	13. Chapter 13: Rug

_Author's Note_:

_Special chocolate-covered thanks to the 69 people who left such lovely, detailed and insightful reviews for Chapter 12, you guys ROCK! And now, without any further ado, here's Chapter 13…_

_Pb, 31__st__ August 2009._

**

* * *

**

Chapter Thirteen: Rug

---

"Alright, everybody, that'll do for today! Really good work as usual. Have a good Christmas and we'll meet up again in the first week of January, OK?"

There was a murmur of assent and then the buzz of excited conversation as people talked about how the lesson had gone and wished each other a happy Christmas. The rest of the class started leaving in twos and threes as usual, so as not to arouse suspicion, and Ron and Hermione helped put away some of the books and cushions people had been using.

"That was great, wasn't it?" enthused Ron. "I really feel like I'm getting better at all this stuff now."

"I know, me too. And I think it's good for Harry as well. You can tell he really enjoys it."

"Yeah, it was definitely one of your more brilliant ideas." He shot her a sly sideways glance. "Not that _all_ your ideas aren't brilliant, of course..."

Hermione chose to ignore this shameless flattery. "Actually... it was _you_ who gave me the idea in the first place."

"_Me?" _exclaimed Ron, looking rather stunned. "How do you work that one out?"

"Well... you remember a few months ago we were on prefect rounds together and you had a little red ball you were bouncing?"

He shrugged. "Vaguely."

"Well, I do." A faint smile crossed her lips. "It was rather _annoying_, actually..."

Ron clapped his hand to his forehead in pretend realisation. "Oh, _now_ I remember!"

"Well, anyway, when I asked you about it, you said you were trying to improve your reflexes in case of a Dementor attack like the one on Harry..."

Ron laughed. "Yeah, but I just made that up 'cos I didn't want anyone to know I was trying out for Keeper! I didn't actually _mean_ it!"

"I know, but it must have stuck in my mind because I kept thinking about it, and the more I thought about it, the more I thought it was a really good idea. We're not learning anything useful from Umbridge, and if any of us were attacked by Dementors or Death Eaters, we wouldn't be able to do a thing to save ourselves. Harry's about the only person who'd have a chance, because he's the only one who's had any practical experience. So it made sense, really, to have him teach us what he knows - what?"

Ron was gazing at her in awestruck wonder. "You're brilliant, you know that? I'd never have thought of that."

"You _did _think of it!" she reminded him, laughing.

"Yeah, as a _joke!_"

"That's not the point." She hesitated, reminded of something that had been bothering her for weeks. "Why didn't you want anyone to know you were trying out for Keeper?"

He shrugged. "Well, I didn't think I'd get on the team, did I? No point in getting people's hopes up unnecessarily."

"You could have told _us_, though," she admonished gently. "We're supposed to be your _friends."_

Ron didn't reply for a few moments, taking his time putting away the cushions, then he said, brightly, "Did you see me stun Neville?"

Hermione suppressed a smile at his terrible attempt to change the subject. "No, I must have blinked when that happened."

Ron affected outrage, and she laughed. "Yes, yes, you were very impressive! Only next time try and aim for the cushions, will you? I don't think poor Neville will be able to sit down for _weeks_..."

He hit her on the arm with a cushion and she let out a shriek and tried to wrench it from his grasp so she could hit him back with it. But then the sight of something - or rather, some_one_ - behind him made the smile freeze on her face.

"Come on," she urged, letting go of the cushion hurriedly. "Let's go back to the common room."

Ron frowned. "Shouldn't we wait for Harry?"

"No, er - I think he's busy."

"Busy?" he repeated, confused.

She hesitated. "I think Cho wants to talk to him."

"Oh, right, what about?"

She just looked back at him wearily, as if to say, "Do I really need to spell it out?"

Ron flushed. He glanced over to where Cho stood waiting, her eyes fixed on the back of Harry's head as he stood talking to Neville.

"Oh," he said, weakly, "Right."

"Come on," said Hermione, briskly, grabbing him by the forearm and dragging him away.

They walked back to the common room in silence, neither knowing quite what to say about this unexpected new turn of events. There were only a handful of other people still in the common room by the time they arrived, the other Gryffindor DA members having apparently gone straight up to bed.

Ron threw himself into one of the big comfy armchairs by the fire, and after a few moments' hesitation, Hermione sat down opposite him. They exchanged tight, awkward, embarrassed little smiles.

"So..." began Ron, in a tone of forced cheer, "Harry and Cho, eh?"

"Mm," said Hermione, not sure she wanted to discuss it, especially with Ron.

"I suppose it's been on the cards for a while, though."

"I suppose so."

There was a short silence, and then Ron reached down for his bag and pulled out his textbook with an exaggerated sigh. "Suppose I'd better get on with this bloody essay, then."

She stared at him. Was that _it? _Was that all he had to say on the subject?

Now that Ron seemed to have decided he _didn't_ want to discuss it, Hermione suddenly found it absolutely imperative that they _did_. Tonight felt significant somehow. As though it might be the start of something momentous, and not just for Harry. She hoped fervently that he would ask Cho out. Maybe even _kiss_ her. Perhaps it would finally spur Ron on to make a move himself.

"Do you think he'll ask her out?" she asked, in a studied casual tone. "I mean, he's liked her for ages, hasn't he?"

Ron merely shrugged, rifling distractedly through his bag for something. "Where's this bloody… oh for… _a-ha!"_

He held up his quill in triumph and then kicked off his shoes and stretched out his toes towards the fire with a satisfied little sigh. For the next few minutes he kept fidgeting and shifting about in his chair, rearranging his legs and sighing, before finally tossing his textbook unceremoniously onto the hearthrug at their feet and throwing himself down after it.

Usually Hermione would have scolded him for such wilfully careless treatment of a book, but tonight there were rather more important things on her mind. She watched him making himself comfortable on the rug, propping himself up on his elbows so he could read his textbook and carefully arranging his half-finished essay, bottle of ink and quill on the floor in front of him.

"If he _did_ ask her out…" she began. Ron glanced up from the floor. "…what would you think?"

He looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"

"Well… he'd probably start spending a lot more time with her, wouldn't he?"

Ron frowned. "I suppose. I hadn't really thought about it."

"Well, how would you feel about that?"

He shrugged. "It's up to him, isn't it?"

Hermione didn't reply for a few moments. She wasn't really getting her point across very well here. She wanted to remind him that when she had been going out with Viktor his reaction had been rather more dramatic, but it was a difficult subject to broach. She wanted him to say, "Well, that was different," and then to realise and admit _why_ it was different.

"Do you think he'll kiss her?" she asked, watching him carefully out of the corner of her eye for his reaction.

Ron pulled a face and mimed vomiting, as though the whole idea of kissing was completely disgusting, and she felt an irrational anger course through her.

She wanted to say, "Viktor kissed me after the ball! Did you know that? What do you think about _that?" _but instead she pursed her lips and reached into her bag for her quill and a new roll of parchment.

_"Dear Viktor," _she wrote, and then glanced up at Ron, whose head was buried in his textbook. She made a big fuss of rustling the parchment but he still wouldn't look up. Fine. _Fine! _

_"I hope you are well." _

She hesitated, her quill hovering over the parchment. She wasn't entirely sure what she should say to him. It had been months since their last correspondence, and even longer since they had seen each other. He had been predictably gentlemanly and understanding about her reasons for not going to Bulgaria (or at least, the reasons she had given him, anyway) and seemed to accept her suggestion that they stay in touch as penpals. But Viktor wasn't really a writer (hardly surprising since he wasn't much of a talker either), and there had only been a couple of letters exchanged between them since. If she were honest, the whole thing seemed like a lifetime ago now. If it weren't for the fact that his photograph frequently scowled at her from the back pages of the Prophet, she might almost have forgotten what he looked like.

---

For the next ten minutes she wrote rapidly, telling Viktor all about her hard year of studying and her upcoming Christmas skiing trip with her parents, which she was looking forward to greatly. She hadn't seen them since the start of the summer, after all. Every few seconds she would glance up at Ron, who was supposed to be writing an essay, but was in fact merely holding his quill poised over a blank sheet of parchment, and seemed to have been staring at the same page for practically ever.

---

Ron's mind was racing. She was right; if Harry started going out with Cho, he'd be bound to spend less time hanging around with them. Ron would get to spend a lot more time alone with just Hermione. He wasn't sure how he felt about that. Alright, so he'd decided it was a hopeless cause, and that pretending he didn't fancy her and doing absolutely nothing was the best course of action, but that didn't make it any easier to be around her all the time. He couldn't turn it off like a tap. He still liked her… in that way. Sometimes, when they were getting on really well, or she was laughing at something he'd said, he'd start to talk himself back into it again, get his hopes up, even if it was only for a moment. She liked him. She just didn't… _like _him. He'd just have to be content with the odd glance at her tits and the way his stomach did a back-flip when she laughed.

---

_Shit, _he suddenly thought, if Harry started going out with Cho, Hermione was bound to start wondering why she didn't have a boyfriend too. She might start looking around for some burly sixth former to snog. Definitely no-one in their year. She obviously liked older blokes. First Lockhart, then Krum… Shit, maybe she already had someone in mind!

---

Well, that was it then, he'd missed his chance. Not that he ever really had one in the first place, of course, but that still didn't mean he wanted to stand by and watch Hermione dating a succession of undeserving twats. Especially if she was going to make him listen to all the gory details. That would just be too much to ask.

"Do you not understand the question?"

Ron glanced up at her with a frown. "What?"

"The question," she repeated, irritably. "You've been staring at the same page for ages and you've only written about three words."

"I'm _reading!" _he protested, annoyed.

"What, for ten minutes?"

He flushed. "I'm a slow reader! What do you care, anyway?"

"Nobody's _that_ slow! I thought you'd fallen asleep, you were taking so long!"

"I'm deciding what I'm gonna write, OK? _God!"_

_"I've_ written nearly a _foot_ already!"

"Well, good for you," he muttered, and returned his gaze to the page in front of him, effectively closing off the argument.

She deliberately let the top edge of the roll of parchment dangle down over her knees. If he just glanced a little to his right, he would see the words "Dear Viktor" upside down at the top of the page.

Nothing. She rustled the parchment again, but he still wouldn't look up. She fumed silently. Why could Harry admit his feelings but Ron couldn't? Was he ashamed about liking her or something? Was he embarrassed in case his brothers teased him about it? Maybe, like Harry, he was only interested in the _pretty_ girls. Or maybe he was just _useless_, like most boys were.

"She's very _pretty_," she said, almost spitting out the word as though it was an insult.

"Mm?" said Ron, distractedly. "Who?"

"_Cho!"_

He shrugged. "Yeah, she's alright."

"Lots of boys think she's pretty."

"Mm. Yeah. S'pose."

Hermione glared at him. "So you like her?"

"She's alright, I suppose. For a Tornados fan, anyway," he joked, weakly.

_"Humph," _said Hermione.

Ron shook his head. What did she want him to say? He didn't know Cho well enough to like or dislike her. He'd probably only exchanged about two sentences with the girl in five years. Anyway, it didn't matter if he liked her, did it? He wasn't the one going out with her.

He frowned. What if Harry starting spending all his time with Cho, and then Hermione got a boyfriend too? She'd be bound to want to spend all her time with him, wouldn't she? She wouldn't want to hang around with Ron anymore. He couldn't quite believe this possibility had never occurred to him before. He could see it happening, clear as day. She'd start spending all her time with her new boyfriend, and gradually, bit by bit, he'd lose her. She'd move on and leave him behind. Harry too. It was inevitable.

"Do you think we'll still be friends when we're fifty?" he asked, abruptly.

"Of course we will," said Hermione automatically, then immediately began to doubt herself. "Why," she asked, panicking slightly, "You don't think we will?"

He shrugged. "I dunno, do I?" he said, evasively. "It's ages away. I can barely imagine what I might be doing in _five_ years, let alone fifty."

Hermione considered for a moment. "I'll be twenty-one," she said, "And you'll be twenty. We'll be working."

"Great," said Ron, with a small groan. "Knight Bus, here I come."

"Well, if anything ought to persuade you of the importance of getting on with your essay, that should," said Hermione, waspishly.

Ron rolled his eyes at the predictability of this comment. "_You'll_ probably be Minister of Magic by then."

"At _twenty-one?" _scoffed Hermione. "I don't _think_ so. Anyway, I don't _want_ to be Minister of Magic. There are far too many other things I want to do first."

"Oh, _go_ on," he teased. "You could get me a job cleaning your office. Or I could be your personal secretary."

Hermione raised an ironic eyebrow. "With _your_ handwriting? I'd need to employ someone else just to translate your notes."

Ron chuckled and returned to his essay, his smile gradually fading to a frown. The thing was; she probably _could_ be Minister for Magic if she wanted. Maybe not at twenty-one, but… Hermione was brilliant. Everyone thought so. Whatever she did with her life she was going to be brilliant at it. Those kinds of people did not hang around with cleaners and bus conductors and people whose dads had to wangle them crappy office jobs at the Ministry because they'd failed all their exams. They certainly didn't go _out_ with them. Oh, _shut up_, he told himself sharply. Like _that's_ the problem. You could get nine Outstanding OWLs, become Head Boy, win the World Cup, single-handedly free all the House Elves, and build her a giant library containing every book that had ever been written and she _still_ wouldn't fancy you.

---

Yeah, he could see it all now. Bumping into her twice a year in the Ministry corridors when he'd be pushing a cleaning trolley and she'd pretend she had a meeting to go to so she didn't have to talk to him. "Lovely to see you again, Ron! Give my love to the family! Sorry, can't stop, I've got a meeting with the Minister!"

---

He sighed and ran a weary hand through his hair. No point worrying about all that now. If it was going to happen, there wasn't a blind thing he could do about it. Besides, he had enough to worry about already what with failing exams and failing Quidditch and - oh, just generally being a total fucking failure at pretty much _everything_. Jesus. And people said these were supposed to be the best years of your life!

---

Hermione glanced up as movement from Ron caught her peripheral vision, and then found that she could not drag her eyes away. She stared, mesmerised by the way the flickering firelight cast shadows onto his hair, making it seem almost aflame. How bright and vibrant and vivid it was, the colour of Autumn leaves and bonfires, rust and house bricks. A flash of brilliant, blazing red that drew your eye inexorably toward it, like the fleeting glimpse of a fox at twilight. He was the brightest thing in the room. He was _always_ the brightest thing in the room.

"It looks like your head's on fire," she murmured, half to herself.

He glanced up. "Eh?"

She flushed. "The fire - your hair -"

Ron's face split into a grin. "Fred and George set fire to me once."

She gasped and her hand flew to her mouth in shock. _"What? _When?"

He waved an airy hand. "Oh, ages ago. I was about four, I think. It was Christmas. Ginny was sick so Mum asked them to keep an eye on me for ten minutes while she put her to bed, and she thought if she got them to help decorate the Christmas tree it would keep them out of trouble. Anyway, they decided it would be funny to put all the decorations on me instead of the tree."

He paused, rather enjoying her horrified reaction. "Only they used _real candles_…"

Hermione gasped again, and he laughed. "It's one of my first memories, actually. Apparently there's a photo of me somewhere with singed hair and no eyebrows. Not that you could tell at that age, of course, 'cos my eyebrows were practically invisible anyway."

"That's awful! Did it hurt?"

"Not that I can remember. I was only on fire for a few seconds." He grinned at her. "Hair burns quickly, you know."

She shook her head in stunned disbelief. "They really get away with murder sometimes, those two."

Ron gave a soft chuckle. "Oh, they didn't get away with it. Mum grounded them for about a month."

_"I'd _have grounded them for a _year_," she said, fiercely.

"Yeah, well, we all know you're a stickler for discipline…"

Hermione pretended to be outraged by this little dig, and Ron hung his head in mock-contrition and held his arm out for her to slap. Hermione ignored him.

"You never told me that before," she said reproachfully.

"Yeah, well…" He gave an airy shrug. "What can I say? I'm an enigma."

She bit back a smile. "You're a _something_ alright..."

Ron laughed. "Is that a _good_ something or a _bad_ something?"

She laughed too. "It's a bit of both, actually."

He shook his head. "I won't ask."

"So..." Hermione began, tentatively, "Is there anything _else_ I don't know about you?"

A small jolt went through him. _Funny you should ask that..._

"Not that I can think of," he said, carefully.

"Oh, come on, there must be _some_thing!"

"Nope." The corners of his mouth twitched slightly. "I'm pretty shallow, you know."

"Oh, shut up. Come on, tell me something I don't know."

"Hermione," said Ron, dryly, "There's _nothing_ you don't know. Probably in the whole _world..."_

She gave him a deathly stare and he held his hands up in mock-defence, laughing. "I can't think of anything. You go first."

Hermione opened her mouth to argue back, then changed her mind. "Alright," she said simply.

They looked at each other, and her gaze automatically drifted downwards to his mouth.

_Oh, if only I dared..._

"Actually," she told him, getting to her feet decisively, "I'll _show_ you."

A thrill of anticipation shot through him. "Sh-_show_ me?"

"Wait there."

"What?"

She disappeared upstairs to the dorm and Ron waited, hardly daring to imagine what she might be about to show him. She was back in less than a minute, however (still wearing all her clothes, unfortunately), and carrying what looked very much like an old shoebox covered in fancy wallpaper.

"Here you go," she beamed, holding the box out for him to take. Ron stared at it, hope rapidly deflating as he realised there was no way whatever was in that box could possibly live up to everything he'd just been imagining.

Hermione's hand wavered. "Well, take it, then!" she said, impatiently.

He sat up and took it gingerly from her grasp - it was unexpectedly heavy - and lifted off the lid.

"I collect stones," she explained.

Ron stared down into the box, which sure enough contained about thirty stones and pebbles of various types and sizes, and then back at her blankly, not quite able to believe the evidence of his own eyes. "You collect _what?"_

"Stones. From places I've been to on holiday, or that mean something to me. I've been doing it for years. I've got one from the garden at The Burrow, actually."

"From The Burrow?" repeated Ron, still rather confused. _"_Er… _why?"_

She flushed slightly. "Well… I suppose it's just because, you know, you're my friend and you mean a lot to me, and I wanted to have something to keep from the place where you grew up. I've got a stone from the Hogwarts grounds, too, and one from the rockery in my grandparents' garden. It's not just stones, I've got pebbles and shells from beaches I've been to as well."

"Oh," said Ron, rather at a loss for words. She'd said he meant a lot to her! Of course, she only meant as a _friend_, she didn't mean anything _else_ by it. But still...

"Your turn."

"What?"

"Tell me something I don't know about you."

"Right," he said, faintly. "Um…"

_I had a wank in the shower this morning thinking about your tits. _

Ohhhkaaay… maybe not _that._

_"_When I was about three I used to want to be a hamster."

Hermione burst out laughing. _"What?"_

He shrugged, and smiled at her laughter. "It's true. Just ask one of the twins."

"A _hamster?" _she gasped, laughing so much she could hardly speak. Ron watched her, wryly amused. _"Why?" _

He shrugged. "I dunno, I can't even really remember it. But everyone says it's true, so I guess it must be."

"Why a hamster, and not, say, a gerbil, or a guinea pig?"

"I just told you, I don't know! I'm glad you think it's funny, though."

He turned back to his essay and she watched him, still smiling.

"So that's your big secret, is it?"

"Eh?"

"Well… is there anything _else_ I don't know about you? Any big secrets I should know about?"

"Nope."

There was a very long silence. Hermione waited for him to ask the obvious question, but he didn't, and eventually she caved in and asked him, "Don't you want to know if _I've_ got any secrets?"

"They wouldn't be secrets if you told me, would they?"

"No," she said, her smile gradually fading, "I suppose not."

She watched him, sadly, taking in his long limbs and the way his jumper stretched across his slender shoulders. He was stretched out on the hearthrug at her feet with surprising elegance, like a cat. No, she corrected herself, as Ron reached up and scratched his ear with his quill, more like a big dog. She almost had to resist the urge to reach down and pat him on the head. Stroke his fur. Oh, _God!_

She suddenly felt her whole body grow tingly and hot in a way she was sure had nothing to do with sitting too close to the fire. Sitting too close to _Ron_, on the other hand...

Her toes were only a few inches away from the side of his body. She could just stretch out her legs and -

Feeling emboldened, she lifted her feet and rested them on his lower back, a thrill of anticipation coursing through her entire body. Ron turned his head and raised his eyebrows at her quizzically.

She laughed, nervously. "What? I'm resting my feet!"

He just sighed and shook his head and returned to his essay, and she was rather shocked that he hadn't asked her to move them. Now they were almost the only people left in the common room it felt oddly intimate, and she quickly removed her feet, feeling suddenly intensely flustered.

"So did you - um - did - what's the - how's the essay coming along?"

"Yeah, alright. How's yours? Nearly finished it, I suppose?"

"Oh, it's not an essay," Hermione told him hurriedly, her heartbeat quickening, "It's a letter."

"Oh," said Ron, "Okay."

"_Ask me who it's to!"_ she pleaded silently, but he merely picked up his quill and turned back to his essay once more.

She stared at the back of his head in irritation and disbelief. Sometimes it felt as though he wilfully misunderstood all the pointed little questions she asked and massive great hints she dropped. She sighed and returned her gaze to the letter in front of her, but it was no use, it was impossible to concentrate.

"Have you thought about what you might want for your birthday yet?" she asked.

"Not really. It's ages away, anyway. What about Christmas?"

"I've already got your Christmas present."

"Have you?" he asked, his interest piqued. "What is it?"

"Wait and see. So what about your birthday? I thought I might bring you back something from France."

He shrugged. "There's not really anything I want. Well -"

"Well what?" she asked, eagerly.

"Unless there's some sort of magic potion you can buy that'll make me really good at Quidditch," he joked, darkly.

Hermione frowned. She'd noticed lately that Ron's sense of humour was becoming not so much self-deprecating as self-lacerating.

"You _are_ good at Quidditch."

"Oh, yeah, that'll be why I keep letting in all those goals, then."

She didn't know what to say. For a few seconds they just stared at each other.

"You've just had a bit of a setback, that's all. I'm sure if you -"

"A _setback?" _he repeated, incredulously. "Did you _see_ my last match?"

"That wasn't your fault, it was Malfoy, he -"

"I don't need you making excuses for me," he snarled.

"I'm not making excuses! I'm just trying to -"

"I don't want to talk about it," said Ron, shortly. He turned the page of his textbook with a flourish as if to put an end to the conversation.

Hermione wasn't giving up that easily. "Well... maybe you should. Maybe talking about it would _help_ -"

"Angelina letting me resign from the team would _help_."

She opened her mouth and closed it again, wishing there was something more constructive she could say. Ron could be incredibly stubborn when he wanted to be. He had just given up, and nothing she or anyone else said seemed to make a blind bit of difference.

"You just need more practice," she finally told him, weakly.

Ron shook his head. "Yeah, about a million years' worth…" he muttered.

"Well… is there anything _I_ can do?"

He gave a mirthless snort. "No offence or anything, but what you know about Quidditch could be written on the back of a Chocolate Frog card. _Twice_."

"I know they wouldn't have made you Keeper if they didn't think you were good enough," said Hermione, ignoring the slight. "You saved more goals than anyone else in the trials, didn't you?"

"Yeah, well," said Ron, sourly, "That was a fluke. Anyway, that was the trials. It's much easier to save goals when there aren't a couple of hundred people singing '_Weasley was born in a bin' _at you, funnily enough."

"Maybe you should wear earplugs," Hermione suggested, helpfully.

Ron stared at her, not sure whether she was joking or not, then decided that as it was Hermione, she probably wasn't.

"It's not just the song," he sighed. "I'm just rubbish at Quidditch, that's all." She opened her mouth to protest and he cut her off quickly. "It's fine, I've accepted it. Now can we _please_ talk about something else?"

"Alright," she said, rather hurt, "If that's what you want."

"It is."

Ron stared unseeingly down at the page in front of him, his face on fire with humiliation. God, he was pathetic. She was obviously only saying it to be nice. Out of _pity_. The way you'd pat a little kid on the head when they showed you the shit painting they'd done.

"Oh, but you _are_ good at Quidditch!"

No, he wasn't. If Harry and his brothers hadn't been banned from the team, no doubt everyone would have been only too delighted to accept his resignation, but if he chose to quit now, he'd just be letting them down. They clearly didn't really want him on the team, but they had little choice in the circumstances. So he was stuck. He had to keep on going to practice sessions, knowing that no-one wanted him there, and knowing that he didn't _deserve_ to be, either. The next match was in January, and he was dreading it. If they sang that song again, if he played as badly as he had done last time… he didn't think he could stand going through all that again.

---

A month since the last match and the Slytherins still hummed that bloody song every time he walked past them in the corridor. "Weasley Is Our King" had become the soundtrack to his life lately, sometimes with new, even nastier lyrics that he couldn't help wondering if they were rehearsing for the next match. Was this what it was going to be like all year? Forever? If only he could just break his leg or something, then they'd have to get someone else in to take his place. Maybe he could "accidentally" fall off his broom at the next practice session. Yeah, except knowing his luck, he'd probably land on his head. Still, at least he'd have a good excuse for failing all his exams. No-one could argue with a major head injury.

---

It was funny, he'd always loved Quidditch, but now it had become something he dreaded. Being forced to continue as Gryffindor Keeper felt like a punishment, albeit one that benefitted nobody. Angelina kept saying she had faith in him, but she never sounded very convinced. He kept telling her she'd do better to just audition for a new Keeper, and she kept ignoring him. Sooner or later she'd realise he was right, though. It was only a matter of time. And in the meantime he had to put up with this hell.

---

He couldn't even talk to Harry about it, because every time he complained, Harry's face got all tense and angry, as though even _talking_ about Quidditch was painful to him now he wasn't allowed to play. He clearly thought Ron should just shut up and be grateful for an opportunity that Harry himself would have given his right arm for. But it was hard to be grateful for something that made you so miserable.

---

It was ironic, really. Harry, who was actually good at Quidditch and wanted to play, had been banned, and Ron, who was terrible at it and didn't, was being forced to carry on playing against his will. What did he have to do to get thrown off the team? Punch Professor McGonagall in the face? Well, that was _one_ way to solve his problems, he thought wryly. At least if he got expelled he wouldn't have to worry about Quidditch or failing his exams anymore.

---

Hermione watched him anxiously. He hadn't written a word or turned a page for several minutes now, and she knew he was lying there beating himself up about Quidditch again. She racked her brains for a change of subject, anything to distract him, stop him thinking about bloody Quidditch.

"Can you believe it's nearly Christmas already?" she asked, brightly. "I can't believe how quickly this year's gone!"

"Can't be over soon enough as far as I'm concerned," said Ron, grumpily. "This has been the worst year _ever_."

"Yes, but then it's only six months 'til the start of our exams."

"Thanks for that," said Ron, dryly. "Could you not just let me be happy for ten seconds?"

"Well, it's true! Six months will go quickly, you know. I mean, six months ago it was July and we were still at Grimmauld Place."

"Yeah, well, I'm glad we haven't got to go there for Christmas. This is the longest I've ever been away from home before. Six months! I've almost forgotten what my own house looks like." He frowned. "I don't suppose it'll exactly be a bundle of laughs, mind. Especially if Percy doesn't come home for Christmas. Mum'll be crying all over the place again, I bet."

"He wouldn't miss _Christmas_, surely!"

"Yeah, you wouldn't think so, would you? But he's already missed several birthdays. He obviously just doesn't give a shit anymore what happens to us."

"I'm sure that's not true."

Ron merely grunted in response, and she sensed that the subject was closed.

"So have you got _me_ a Christmas present?" she asked, hurriedly.

He nodded, but didn't look up. "Uh-huh."

"What is it?"

"Wait and see," he told her, but his heart was sinking.

In the first flush of hope and optimism after he'd been made prefect and his parents had bought him a new broom, he'd gone out and spent half his Christmas money on a stupidly expensive present for her. Somehow he'd deluded himself into thinking that by now, his impressive prowess on the Quidditch pitch combined with his responsible new role as prefect would have made her start to think differently about him.

---

Well, he might as well pour it down the sink now. If it wasn't too late to get her something else, he probably would. Stupid idea, anyway. _Perfume!_ Hermione didn't want _perfume_. She wasn't that kind of girl. She wanted books. She _always_ wanted books. Everyone knew that. She was going to take one look at it and think he'd lost his mind. "But I wanted the new Theory of Numerology!"

---

Yeah, he should have just bought her that. The safe option. It would have been cheaper, too. And he wouldn't have had to spend the best part of an hour trailing around after the woman in the perfume shop trying to decide which of the seemingly identical scents on offer "smelled like Hermione". _Christ._ After the first five minutes he hadn't been able to smell anything at all and had finally settled on the one he had bought purely because a) the woman (who after all, ought to know more about it than he did) had suggested it was suitable for a "serious" teenage girl, and b) it had a nice, plain bottle. Not one decorated with wood nymphs or some other shit.

---

That had been embarrassing as well. The endless sodding questions! Who was it for? His mother? His sister? His... (he hadn't missed her disbelieving pause)... _girlfriend? _No. None of the above. For a friend. _Just_ a friend. That was all. And after last month's disaster, _just a friend _was all she was ever going to be. The biggest, most expensive bottle of _Autumn Mist _in the world wasn't going to change that.

---

That was another reason he'd settled on this one. Because it didn't have a stupid, embarrassing name like _L'Amour_ or _Secret Flower _or _Vixen_. Well, that and he'd just wanted to get out of the bloody shop before he coughed up a lung.

---

He sighed, resignedly. Fine. He'd have to give it to her, because he didn't have time to buy her anything else. Or any money. Or anything like a _choice_.

"That was a big sigh."

"What?"

They stared at each other, and he felt his face grow warm. Sometimes it felt like she could read his mind, especially when he was thinking about _her. _

"What were you thinking about?"

"Er…" He turned back to his essay quickly. "Just, ah… deciding what I'm gonna write, that's all."

---

Ah, frig. This wasn't going to work, was it? Trying to pretend he didn't fancy her - what an idiot! If he were honest with himself, he really _did_ hope she liked the perfume, and she understood what he was trying to say with it. He was probably hoping for too much, to expect a Christmas present to say everything he couldn't, because he wasn't very good at that kind of thing and would no doubt screw it up really badly if he even tried.

---

But then, what if she _did_ understand what he was trying to say, and was horrified at the very idea? _"Oh, God, Ron bought me perfume, is he out of his mind? I just don't like him in that way, he must know that."_ She'd be embarrassed. It would be humiliating. It would be worse than humiliating. If she realised and rejected him… and then he _still_ had to spend the next two and a half years sitting next to her every day in lessons. Oh, God, that would kill him. Actually, it would probably kill their friendship completely.

---

Yeah, the perfume was a bad idea. But Christmas was next week and short of pretending he'd accidentally dropped her present and broken it, he was all out of options. _Hell_. Maybe he could blame it on Ginny in some way, say it was her idea. Or just… pretend it didn't mean anything. Yeah, that might work. She already thought he was dense about that sort of thing, so maybe just feigning ignorance was the best course of action. "Oh, the perfume? Yeah, my Mum chose it. I wanted to get you a book." _Damn, he should have just got her a book!_

---

He rubbed his eyes, wearily. That stupid bottle of perfume was like a millstone around his neck, reminding him of what a deluded idiot he'd been every time he looked at it. He'd give it to her, because the alternative was giving her nothing at all, but he wasn't stupid enough to actually expect anything to happen. What was she going to do, be so pathetically grateful for his rubbish present that she threw herself at him? Yeah, that'd happen. And Gryffindor would win the cup this year, and he'd pass all his exams with flying colours. Yeah, _right_.

---

Anyway, he remembered, gloomily, she'd be in France with her parents, wouldn't she? He wouldn't even get to see her open it. Probably for the best, mind. Better not to see her look of crushing disappointment. With any luck by the time they saw each other again in January, she'd have had time to come up with a nice lie about how much she liked it.

"So you'll be doing that skiing then, will you?" he asked, heavily.

Hermione glanced up, somewhat wrong-footed by the sudden change of subject. "Yes, although to be honest, it's not really my sort of thing. I like the scenery, and the snow, and the mountains, but the actual skiing doesn't really do anything for me."

"Funny that," he said, dryly, "You'd have thought you'd jump at the chance to chuck yourself off a mountain with a couple of bits of wood strapped to your feet."

"It's no more odd than flying through the air with a giant bit of wood between your legs!" she retorted, then flushed crimson as Ron sniggered and she realised what she'd just said.

"Oh, honestly! You're pathetic!"

He was rolling about on the floor laughing now and she shot him a disgusted look.

"For God's sake! How old are you?"

"Eight," said Ron, promptly. "I'm tall for my age."

Hermione bit her lip. She would not smile. "You're not funny, you know."

"Why are you laughing, then?"

"I'm not - oh, shut up!"

Ron returned to his essay, still smirking. For several minutes there was silence, broken only by the scratching of two quills on parchment, then Hermione asked, "So there's nothing you want me to bring back from France, then?"

Ron thought for a moment. "Biscuits?" he suggested, hopefully.

"Yes, well, _obviously_ I'll bring back biscuits. Don't I _always_ bring back biscuits?"

"Chocolate ones."

"_Fine," _she sighed, impatiently. "But nothing else?"

He shrugged. "I can't think of anything."

"There must be _something_ you want!"

"Not really."

"So with the entire world to choose from, the only thing you can think of that you want is _biscuits?"_

The corners of Ron's mouth twitched slightly. _"Cake?" _he suggested.

She glared at him, and he laughed out loud and held his hands up in mock-defence. "I just like biscuits, that's all!"

"What about clothes?" she asked, ignoring him.

"I'm not interested in clothes," said Ron at once. "I'm not a _girl."_

"You don't have to be a girl to be interested in clothes!"

"Well, I don't know any _blokes_ who care about that stuff," he muttered. "Only girls."

"_I'm _a girl and I'm not interested in clothes!"

"Yeah, but you're different."

She stared at him, her face growing redder by the second. So that's what he thought proper girls were supposed to be like, was it? Interested in clothes rather than books. Nice, pretty, _girly_ girls with lovely shiny hair like Fleur and Cho. Well, _fine!_

"What's _that _supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"What?"

Ron stared back at her angry crimson face, not quite sure what he had said to upset her, but absolutely certain that continuing this conversation was a hiding to nowhere. He wasn't quite sure what he'd meant himself, except that she wasn't like the other girls at school, who all seemed very much aware of the power they held over boys. Hermione, thank Merlin, didn't seem to have a clue about the effect she had on him, and probably - although he didn't really want to dwell on that thought - other blokes as well.

---

Some of the older girls - and not just the Muggle-born ones either - seemed quite happy to flash a bit of flesh to get the boys' attention, but Hermione didn't. She wasn't like that. She wasn't like _them_. She was just _different_, in all sorts of ways he couldn't quite explain. She didn't nudge her friends and giggle when a 'cute' boy walked past, or check her hair every time she walked past a mirror. She didn't wear short skirts or low-cut tops or plaster herself with make-up. She didn't dress to attract attention, or act differently around boys. Not that it stopped him looking, of course. If anything, it just made him want to see the bits of her that were hidden even _more_.

---

He shot a sideways glance at her legs. Annoyingly, that long letter she was writing was obscuring most of the view. Not that there'd be anything to see anyway, since, as it was winter in Scotland, the sensible, ever-practical Hermione was wearing tights so thick you could probably use them as blackout curtains. He felt a faint stirring and almost laughed out loud at his own ridiculousness. How was it possible to get slightly turned on by a pair of thick woolly tights? Thank Merlin he was lying on his front!

_"Well?" _she demanded, furiously.

Ron's smile vanished instantly. "Dunno," he mumbled.

"Well, if you didn't know what you _meant_, maybe you should have just kept your mouth shut!" snapped Hermione.

"Maybe," said Ron, dryly. "But you'd get bored after the first three hours."

Hermione stared at him blankly, having completely missed the joke.

"You know, 'cos you'd have no-one to talk to," he explained, then, when she still didn't get it, shook his head exasperatedly. "Never mind."

Not getting the joke only seemed to make Hermione even more furious.

"Just because I think there are more important things in life than clothes and make-up, doesn't mean I'm not a proper girl! Honestly, you seem to have a very narrow view of -"

"That's not what I said!" protested Ron, indignantly.

"- what women should be! I suppose you think we should all be at home doing all the cooking and cleaning and looking after the _menfolk!"_

"That's not what I - oh, _God! _Will you just -"

"Well, maybe that's what the women are like in _your_ family, but in the _real_ world, women can do anything they want! We even had a female Prime Minister a few years ago, although my mum always says she single-handedly set the cause of feminism back about twenty years -"

"Hermione -"

"Of course, in the wizarding world it might as well still be the nineteenth century! I mean, there's never been a female Minister for Magic -"

"And that's _my_ fault, is it?" exclaimed Ron, incredulously, but she didn't pause for breath.

Finally, just when she had reached the number of Headmasters of Hogwarts being three to one against the number of Headmistresses, he held up a hand to silence her and bellowed, _"Hermione!"_

_"WHAT?" _she snapped back.

"Seriously, did I just nod off for a minute and say all this in my sleep? 'Cos I don't remember saying _any_ of this…"

"Well, you clearly _think_ it!"

"No. I don't. I don't see any reason at all why a woman couldn't be the Minister for Magic."

Hermione opened and closed her mouth again, somewhat wrong-footed. "Well -"

But Ron was on a roll.

"And as for the wizarding world being all backwards and anti-women like you say, Dean says Muggles don't have any mixed sex sports teams, so if someone like Ginny wanted to play football or one of those other Muggle sports, she wouldn't be allowed. Or have I got _that_ wrong as well as everything else?"

"No, that's - it's - yes, but -"

Ron was looking infuriatingly smug at having won the point, and she gritted her teeth in annoyance. "Oh, shut up," she told him, irritably. "Haven't you got an essay to finish or something?

He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Suppose I'd better. After all, it doesn't look I'm gonna be an International Quidditch player, the way things are going…"

She frowned. "Did you _want_ to be an International Quidditch player?"

"Well, who wouldn't?" he retorted, then his tone softened. "I mean, think about it… the money, the fame..."

"There's more to life than money!" she retorted hotly.

"…the girls…"

Hermione stared at him, appalled. "So that's the only reason you'd want to be a Quidditch player?" she demanded furiously, "Blind adoration from a lot of silly, giggling little girls who wouldn't have looked at you twice normally?"

"Well, _yeah_," said Ron, laughing, "Why else does anyone do anything? Ooh, let me _think;_ sad, tragic, girlfriendless loser working on the Knight Bus, or rich, famous Quidditch star who can get any girl he wants?"

Or rather, one _particular_ girl he wants, he thought to himself.

Hermione stabbed her quill through her parchment in anger, her head suddenly full of unwelcome mental images of Ron in his Quidditch gear, surrounded by a gaggle of beautiful women, all fawning over his every word and laughing at his stupid, childish, pathetic jokes.

"Well, I think that's a very shallow attitude," she said, stiffly.

"Well," he joked, weakly, "I did _warn_ you I was shallow…"

"You sound almost _proud_ of it!"

"Well, that's what you get for hanging around with a couple of blokes all the time."

"Oh, don't try and be _macho_, Ron," said Hermione, scathingly, "It doesn't suit you!"

A small jolt went through him. What the hell was _that_ supposed to mean?

"Whatever," he muttered, annoyed.

For several minutes they were both too angry to speak, Ron pretending to read his textbook and Hermione glaring at him whilst turning her quill over and over in her fingers furiously. Too busy shooting daggers at him to pay proper attention, she fumbled and dropped it, and it rolled across the carpet, coming to a halt by Ron's elbow. She leant down to pick it up, but Ron got there first.

"Time of the month, is it?"

She straightened up and stared at him, a crimson flush creeping up her cheek. It _was_ her time of the month, and to have Ron of all people know that was highly disconcerting, to say the least.

"What do you mean?"

Ron reddened, wondering what the hell had possessed him to say that out loud. "Well... you always get really clumsy and drop things when it's, er, you know, your, um..."

"Oh, I _do_, do I?" she demanded furiously. "Anything else?"

"Yeah, you start having puddings with your dinner, and you keep disappearing off to the loo about twenty times a day. Oh, and -"

He wavered under her furious glare. "You're going to hit me, aren't you?"

"Yes, probably," she snarled. "And _what?"_

He shrugged. "You get even more annoyed with me than usual."

Hermione opened her mouth and closed it again. She wanted to say something withering, but knew that by doing so she'd just be proving his point.

"That's not the reason I'm annoyed with you," she said, frostily.

Ron raised his eyebrows quizzically. "No?"

"No. It's because you're _annoying_."

He laughed out loud. "Well, that seems fair enough..."

She shook her head. "You know, it's actually a little bit _weird_ for you to notice all those things."

He shrugged. "Well, I've got a sister, haven't I? I recognise the symptoms."

"_Symptoms? _It's not an _illness!"_

"Yeah, I know, that's not - I don't -" He rubbed his eyes frustratedly. "Look, it's not like I'm making _notes_ or anything. I mean, we spend all day together, we sit next to each other in lessons, we eat our meals together... it would be more weird if I _didn't_ notice what you get up to. Just about the only thing we don't do is _sleep_ together!"

There was short, horrified silence.

"I mean, you know, in the same room," said Ron hurriedly, turning a rather violent shade of crimson, "Not - well, you know what I mean," he finished, highly embarrassed.

"_Of course I know what you mean!" _she snapped, equally mortified.

"Of course you do," he muttered, dryly.

"Can I have my quill back, please?" she asked, stiffly.

"How do you write with that thing, anyway?" he asked, handing it over. "It's really heavy."

"You get used to the weight. I quite like the heaviness of it, actually. It feels… _substantial_. Well-made. I like the idea that all these other people before me might have used it to write novels and love letters and -"

"Shopping lists?" suggested Ron, helpfully.

Hermione shot him one of her deathly glares. "You don't have an ounce of romance in your soul, do you?"

Ron just laughed. "Oh, come on! It's just an old quill! It's probably been lying around in someone's drawer covered in dust for eighty years!"

"A hundred years, actually," Hermione corrected automatically, "It's Victorian."

He shook his head. "I still don't get why you wanted a second-hand quill for your birthday. Your parents must be able to afford to buy you a hundred new ones if they wanted."

"That's not the point. Anyway, it's not second-hand, it's _antique_."

Ron raised his eyebrows sceptically. "Is there a difference?"

"Well… I suppose not, except that something that's antique is more valuable."

"So you paid _more_ for something second-hand than you would have done for something _new? _That's mental!"

She shrugged. "I just _like_ old things, that's all."

"What, like _Lockhart?" _threw back Ron, with a grin.

Hermione glared at him."Old things have more character."

"Old things have more _moths_, you mean," chuckled Ron.

"Well, I wouldn't expect _you_ to understand," she said, frostily.

Ron stared at her incredulously. "You're joking, aren't you? I'm the bloody _expert!" _

He reached down and pointed at his shoes - "Bill's." - then his trousers - "Percy's." - then his t-shirt - "Fred's, I think." - and finally his jumper - "Knitted by my mum re-using the old wool from a jumper that _Charlie_ used to wear when _he_ was at school. See? Even the _new_ stuff we get isn't actually new!"

This little demonstration had the unfortunate effect of forcing Hermione to look at different parts of his body in turn, and she felt her own body heat up as though lit from within by a flaming torch. Ron, of course, was far too caught up in his rant to notice her flushed cheeks or the way her eyes lingered slightly longer than was absolutely necessary.

"This used to belong to someone called Rufus Caldicott," he went on, holding up his Transfiguration textbook to show her the name written inside. "He was at Hogwarts in 1986, and he must have had really shaky hands because it's absolutely covered in ink stains. Oh, yeah, and this is my Uncle's old watch. It loses an hour every Thursday afternoon. But that's okay, because apparently, according to _you_, it just gives me more _character!"_

A rather awkward silence followed this little outburst, and they stared at each for an elongated second.

"I'm sorry," said Hermione, meekly. "I didn't mean -"

But Ron cut her off. "No, _I'm _sorry. I shouldn't take it out on you. I know that's not what you meant." He sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "Just… promise me something, will you?"

"Anything," she said, softly.

"If you _do_ buy me something in France for my birthday… don't get me anything _antique, _OK?"

"Ron," she said, smiling, "Even _I _would draw the line at second-hand biscuits."

He laughed out loud, and she did too, wondering, not for the first time, at his ability to laugh just moments after he had been angry and upset.

"I'm an idiot," he told her, shaking his head.

"You're not an idiot."

Ron gave a disbelieving snort. "Come back when I've failed all my exams and tell me that."

"You know," said Hermione, loftily, "If you didn't keep leaving your essays until the last minute, you wouldn't _need_ to worry about failing your exams."

"It's not _my_ fault!" protested Ron, "I've just got too much to _do_, that's all. Last Monday I had to get up at six to finish an essay that was due in first thing!"

_"Yes," _she said, impatiently, "But you wouldn't have _had _to if you hadn't spent most of _Sunday_ messing about in the common room."

"Yeah, but _that_ was only because I spent most of _Saturday _out on the pitch being _shouted_ at and _rained_ on! Is it too much to ask that I actually get a few hours of the weekend to _enjoy_ myself?"

"No, of course not, but remind me, when did Professor McGonagall set the essay again? Nine days ago, wasn't it?"

"Not that you've been counting," muttered Ron, annoyed.

"You just need to be more organised," she scolded.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yes, Mum."

She bit back a retort and thought that he'd be very grateful for her Christmas present to him and Harry of a revision planner, and congratulated herself on such a well-chosen present.

"What did you get Harry for Christmas?" she asked.

"Erm... sweets. Jellybeans."

"Oh. He likes those."

"I know; that's why I bought them. What did you get him?"

"I can't tell you, it's the same thing I got you."

Ron yawned widely and glanced at his watch. "He's been gone twenty minutes now," he observed, frowning. "How long does it take to ask someone out, for Christ's sake?"

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. Privately she suspected that the reason Harry was taking so long was precisely because he and Cho were _not_ doing any talking. Ron could be so dense sometimes.

_"_What?" demanded Ron irritably, noting her look of disdain. "What did I say?"

"I take it back," she said, scornfully. You _are_ an idiot."

_"_What have I done _now?" _he exclaimed, incredulously.

"Well, if you don't know," said Hermione, testily, "I'm not going to tell you."

Ron stared at her open-mouthed for several seconds, then returned to his essay with a disbelieving shake of the head. "You women are all _mental," _he muttered, but very quietly.

---

Hermione retreated into huffy silence, folding her arms tightly across her chest and frowning up at the ceiling so she didn't have to look at him. He was right, though; Harry had been gone rather a long time. Twenty minutes was considerably longer than it ought to take if all Cho wanted to do was wish him a "Happy Christmas". Poor Cho. She had no idea what she was letting herself in for. Hermione loved Harry dearly, but sometimes being his friend was... difficult. Being his _girl_friend, with all the added pressure and emotional investment that entailed, was unlikely to be any easier. Mind you, Harry might find that Cho had enough issues of her own to be going on with - a dead ex-boyfriend, for one. And Hermione thought she and Ron were complicated…

---

She shook her head. Harry better _had_ ask Cho out. He'd only been mooning over her for about a year and a half, for God's sake. About as long as _she'd_ been waiting for Ron to make a move, in fact. And at least Harry had actually managed to ask Cho to the ball, whereas a whole year later Ron still hadn't been able to even admit he liked her as more than friends, let alone actually do anything about it. On the scale of uselessness about girls, her two best friends scored a very poor 8, and an off-the-scale 11. Probably the only subject in which Ron was ever going to get an Outstanding, she thought, bitterly. Outstandingly useless about girls. _Ha! _That was about right.

---

She shot the back of his head an icy glare, as though if she glared hard enough he would feel the force of her fury and turn around. Nothing. No response. She rustled her parchment pointedly, but he still refused to look up.

---

She shook her head at her own folly. It was ridiculous, really, trying to get the attention of someone she already spent most of her time with. She already had his attention, just not necessarily in the way she wanted. What did she have to do, stand on the desk and make an announcement? Turn up at his next practice session in nothing but a strategically-placed Cannons scarf? Lock them both in an empty classroom on prefect rounds and refuse to let him leave until he admitted how he felt about her?

---

If he would just say or do _something_ to let her know he was interested in a different kind of relationship. As opposed to what they currently had, which was basically the same relationship they'd had since they were twelve, only with him occasionally sneaking a glance at her breasts when he thought she wasn't looking. It was almost all she could do on those occasions not to snap, "Will you stop staring at my chest, please?" Although of course, what she _really_ wanted to add was "And do something _about_ it?"

---

Every time she started to be certain about his feelings he would say or do something that would make her doubt them again. He might say or do something she'd interpret as a move in the right direction - a little look, or an awkward compliment - and then a few minutes later they'd be back to arguing about the House Elves again. Maybe they just weren't meant to be. Maybe he didn't have feelings for her the way she had feelings for him. Maybe he just liked looking at her breasts. It was a poor basis for a relationship either way.

---

The object of her wrath was lying sprawled on the rug at her feet, chewing the end of his quill in what she considered an unnecessarily irritating manner, and, as usual, utterly oblivious to her inner turmoil. Hermione watched him with mounting fury.

"You know what your problem is, don't you?" she suddenly burst out, "You just put things off and put things off and you never do anything on time, you just leave it and leave it until people are sick of waiting and it's too late!"

Ron stared back at her, rather stunned. "Al_right!_" he retorted, angrily. "I'm _doing_ the bloody essay, aren't I? _Jesus!_"

"Oh, and by the way," she added, jabbing a furious finger in the direction of his essay, "There's no apostrophe in _moons. _It's _plural."_

"_Thanks,"_ he snarled.

"I'm only trying to _help!"_

"Well, don't."

"Fine, I'll remember that next time you beg me to let you borrow my homework because you've left yours 'til the last minute again."

"Fine, do that, then."

"I will."

"You know," said Ron, dryly, "If you didn't keep distracting me, I might have finished it by now."

"_Me _distract _you__?" _exclaimed Hermione, with a high, disbelieving laugh.

"Well, I'm the one who's trying to work," pointed out Ron, reasonably. "So... yeah. _You're_ distracting _me_."

"Well, if that's how you feel," snapped Hermione, "I won't distract you anymore!"

"Good."

"I've got this letter to finish, anyway!"

_Ask me who it's to! What's wrong with you?_

Ron gave an infuriating shrug. "I'm not stopping you."

_"God!" _she burst out, furiously, "Why do I even -"

She broke off. The portrait hole had just swung open and they both looked up to see Harry stumble through it with a dazed expression on his face, and looking rather as though he'd just been Stunned, Confunded and Obliviated all at the same time.

---

* * *

---

"What does she see in Krum?" Ron demanded, as he and Harry mounted the stairs to the dorm some half an hour later.

"Well…" said Harry, distractedly, "I suppose he's older, isn't he… and he's an International Quidditch player…"

"Yeah, but _apart_ from that," said Ron, irritably, not exactly delighted to be reminded of this fact and rather wishing he hadn't asked, "I mean, he's a grouchy git, isn't he?"

"Bit grouchy, yeah," said Harry, vaguely.

Ron fell silent. Harry was obviously still thinking about the kiss, and not interested in debating the merits or otherwise of Viktor Krum. To be honest, Ron was feeling rather shell-shocked himself. His stomach had just about fallen through the floor when she'd told him who the letter was to. She hadn't mentioned she was still writing to him! He'd thought all that business was well and truly over! Why hadn't she said anything? Oh, God. Was that what she'd meant about having secrets?

---

Well, that was it, then. If Krum was still on the scene, Ron was _very_ glad he hadn't made a tit of himself by making some sort of big, embarrassing confession. Especially as Hermione couldn't have made it plainer that she thought Ron was a childish, stupid, lazy, insensitive, shallow, annoying, unfunny idiot. What was it she'd said about him? Oh yeah, that he had "the emotional range of a teaspoon". A _teaspoon! _What was _that _supposed to mean?

---

He frowned. The evening's conversation had left him more confused than ever. What did she want? Did she want a big, burly, strong and silent type of bloke like Krum, or did she want some swotty bookish type who was 'in touch with their emotions', always did their homework on time and thought being a prefect was the height of achievement? Not that it mattered either way, of course, since he was clearly neither.

---

God, she didn't want much, did she? Someone sensitive and deep and, most importantly, _not macho_, but also built like a broom shed with arms like tree trunks. Well, if she was waiting for a sensitive Quidditch player, she'd be waiting a very long time. _Bloody women_, he thought savagely. Cho had obviously fancied Harry for ages and then, instead of being all happy about finally getting a snog, she'd burst into tears and started banging on about her dead ex-boyfriend in front of him! What was poor Harry supposed to think about that? Girls didn't seem to know _what_ they wanted. Hermione certainly didn't. Well... except that she didn't want _him..._

---

* * *

---

Hermione thought that on the whole, that had gone rather well. All she'd had to do was mention Viktor's name and it had been like lighting the blue touch paper. Ron had been instantly, horribly, wonderfully jealous. She had made it quite clear that she and Viktor were just penpals, so it wasn't as though he had any _reason_ to be jealous, but maybe it would give him the little shove in the right direction he so clearly needed. It certainly couldn't do any harm for him to think of her as being in demand, especially by someone like Viktor Krum.

---

Maybe now that Harry had finally managed to get his act together and kiss Cho, Ron might realise the time had come to make a move of his own. Maybe her being away in France for the holidays was a good thing. Absence was supposed to make the heart grow fonder, after all. Maybe when they came back to school in January and saw each other again, things would finally start to happen. _Finally! _She turned on her side and hugged her pillow happily to her cheek, a huge smile plastered across her face. She had a funny feeling it was going to be a _very_ good year.

---

-------

---

* * *

_Author's Note_:

_I get asked the same questions a lot about my writing, so I thought I would take a moment to answer them here, for everyone's benefit._

_How I Write__:_

___I write every day – on the train, on the bus, whilst eating my breakfast at work, during my lunch hour, on the way home, evenings, weekends, holidays... My friends will tell you that I often stop dead in the street or mid-conversation to write down an idea or a snatch of dialogue. For example, the whole of chapter 12 sprang from just one line - "Ron in the snow after nightmare first Quidditch match" - that I scrawled in my notebook whilst standing in a till queue back in February. I also write "in my head" constantly. At any given moment of the day there's quite a high chance that if you asked me what I'm thinking about I'd be working out a story or a conversation or imagining how R & H would act in the same situation. Basically, I live and breathe Ron and Hermione. Sad, but true!_

_A chapter might initially consist of a handful of separate sections/ conversations, which are then linked into each other, rewritten, changed, rewritten, deleted, more sections added, rewritten, changed, rewritten, moved around, rewritten again and often not used until months, even years later, sometimes in a completely different story. For example, the original piece of writing that became "Biscuits" was written two years ago, and won't actually appear in the story until Chapter 14. Basically, it's a constant process of writing, re-writing, and then yet more re-writing over and over until I'm finally happy with it. _

___My multi-chapter stories are very complex and involved, and just one of my chapters is often longer than some people's whole stories, which is why you might have to wait a little longer for an update than usual. The average time between posting chapters is generally around 6 weeks, but this can be longer if it is a particularly complex chapter (like the last few chapters of "Faultlines", for example), or real life gets in the way. However, since I'm always working on 2-3 chapters at once, the actual time it takes me to write each chapter is probably more like 3 months. _

_I like to think of my stories as like a really good meal. You could go and grab a Big Mac right now, and you wouldn't have to wait more than 60 seconds to be served, but you'd finish the thing in three minutes flat and still be hungry and vaguely dissatisfied. You might have to wait a bit longer for my stories, but you get to savour three delicious courses that the chef has really put their heart and soul into, followed by coffee (or tea!) and mints (or biscuits!) back at my place afterwards. _

_Anyway, huge thanks to everyone who expressed an interest, and I hope that gives you all a bit of an insight into my working process. And lastly and most importantly, please do leave a review for Chapter 13 if you can; I always love to know what you all think!_

_Pb x_

_p.s: In case any of you were wondering, yes; Ron getting 11 out of 10 on the scale of "uselessness about girls" is a rather oblique Spinal Tap reference. Ron Weasley goes up to eleven!_

* * *


	14. Chapter 14: Crumbs Pt One

_Author's Note__: _

No, I'm not dead! Apologies for the longer than usual wait for an update, but this chapter was a _bastard _to write. It was originally two completely separate chapters (one of the reasons it took me twice as long to finish) and since then it's been scrapped completely, restarted from scratch, rewritten, and split into two and back again more times than I can count. I've finally decided it works better as two separate chapters (or rather, two Acts of the same play), but don't worry, I'm posting them both now so you won't have to wait any longer for the second part! I only request that you leave a review for both chapters and not just one for both - I mean, it wouldn't be fair if Fred got more presents than George, now would it?

---

Anyway, I'm sure you don't want to wait another second for your latest hit of Ronandhermione action, so make yourself a cuppa, settle into a comfy chair, put your feet up, and let the fun begin...

Pinky Brown, December 18th 2009

---

* * *

**Chapter Fourteen: Crumbs (Part One)**

---

"What is it?" asked Ron, frowning apprehensively at the large, neatly-wrapped box on the table in front of him. He picked it up and shook it and the contents gave a muffled rattle.

Hermione winced. "I wouldn't do that if I were you."

Ron put the box down again and just looked at it. "It's very light," he said, wonderingly.

He glanced at Hermione, as though asking for permission - she nodded and smiled - and then tore into the wrapping with gusto.

---

Hermione watched him, her heart in her throat. She was still unsure. The box might be impressively large, but the contents had only cost her a few pounds. It didn't seem enough, somehow, for a birthday present. But he _did_ say that there was nothing else he wanted, and he probably also deserved something he _actually_ wanted after the homework planner she'd bought him for Christmas. Oh, how she'd sorely regretted that when she'd opened _his_ present!

---

Two months had passed since she'd woken up on Christmas morning and unwrapped Ron's present to find - stunningly, incredibly, wonderfully - a bottle of perfume. He could hardly have given her a greater sign of his interest in her romantically if he'd bought her a _ring_. Perfume! There was no way on earth she could have misinterpreted a gift like that, surely? For him to buy her such an unashamedly romantic gift as perfume was so unexpected, so utterly out of the blue, that she had knelt there at the foot of her bed surrounded by wrapping paper for several minutes before she recovered herself enough to open the rest of her presents.

---

_Ron_ had bought her _perfume_. It was a gesture, a sign. He was telling her that he was interested, that he knew she was a girl now, and it was only a matter of time before he acted on it and asked her out. Of course, she didn't expect him to say anything _immediately_, not when they were holed up at Grimmauld Place with Harry and all his family there. Fred and George would make fun of him. And besides, his dad had only just left hospital and he had other things on his mind. It was entirely understandable that he'd want to wait until they were back at school before making any kind of move.

---

But January had come and gone and nothing whatsoever had happened. Ron had not acted in any way differently towards her than usual, much to her frustration and annoyance. She had even engineered several opportunities for them to be alone together outside of their normal prefect rounds, but to no avail. She couldn't quite understand _why_. Why buy her perfume if he wasn't interested in her? Why buy her perfume if he wasn't trying to tell her he liked her as more than just friends, and what's more, he wanted her to be his girlfriend? Why buy her perfume and then not do anything about it?

---

By February, when Ron had still not shown any signs of making a move, she had convinced herself (somewhat optimistically) that he must be waiting for Valentine's Day, but - inevitably - the day had passed without event. In fact, she had seen even _less_ of him than usual, since it was a Saturday and Angelina had insisted on a full day's Quidditch practice. That was two weeks ago. And now their exams were approaching rapidly, and she almost didn't _want_ him to ask because she really didn't need the distraction. Ron _certainly_ didn't. He hadn't even _started_ his revision, and their exams were only three months away. _Three months!_ She felt sick at the thought.

---

Ron finally managed to break through Hermione's over-zealous wrapping technique and open the box. For several torturously long moments he just stared down into it without speaking, apparently unable to believe the evidence of his own eyes.

"It's biscuits," he said, turning to her as though expecting her to deny or confirm the diagnosis.

"You said you couldn't think of anything else you wanted for your birthday..." she told him, rather nervously. "So, um..."

Much to her relief, Ron burst out laughing. "This is _brilliant!_ How many biscuits are there in here?"

"Well, there are sixteen different packets, and there are probably about ten to twelve biscuits in each packet, so…" She did a quick mental calculation. "Somewhere between 160 and 200. That should keep you going until at least, ooh, _Sunday_…"

Ron affected outrage, and she laughed.

"No chance," he grinned. "Tomorrow at the latest. Anyway, I'm not gonna be eating them _all_ myself. You and Harry'll be sharing them."

"They're _your _present, Ron. You don't have to share them with us."

"No, but I want to. Anyway, how would it be if I sat here scoffing biscuits all day and never offered you any? You'd hate me!"

"I wouldn't," she said, quietly.

"Are they all Muggle biscuits?" he asked, peering down into the box eagerly.

She nodded. "Have a look and see."

He shook his head. "You tell me. I like hearing you say the names."

She flushed slightly. "Okay, well, there's Chocolate Hob-Nobs, Bourbon creams, Jammie Dodgers, pink wafers, ginger thins, custard creams, chocolate digestives, Jaffa cakes -"

Ron's face assumed a blissful, glazed-over expression, and she laughed and slapped his arm.

"- Cadbury's chocolate fingers, party rings, Penguins, Happy Faces, Mint Viscounts, Wagon Wheels and Tunnock's caramel wafers. Oh, and Tunnock's tea cakes." She shook her head in pretend horror. "My parents would _weep_."

They both laughed and beamed happily at each other.

"It's brilliant," said Ron again. "It's the best present ever."

"It's only biscuits," she mumbled, modestly, although inside she was turning cartwheels of delight. "But I'm glad you -"

Suddenly, there was a loud commotion by the portrait hole and cheers and whoops greeted the arrival of Fred and George, levitating a large keg of Butterbeer, a dangerously high stack of china dessert plates, and an enormous iced birthday cake, its candles already lit and the flames flickering madly in the draft from the open door. People were already crowding around to see what was happening, and bursting into laughter the moment they saw the cake, which was in the somewhat wobbly shape of Ron's face, complete with bright red icing sugar hair and glace cherry freckles. It looked like nothing so much as a child's drawing of a clown, and Ron flushed as scarlet as the icing on his birthday cake when he saw it.

"What the bloody hell is _that _supposed to be?" he demanded, mortified.

"It's excellent, isn't it?" grinned George. "Dobby made it for us!"

"_What?"_ interrupted Hermione, thoroughly outraged, "You mean -"

But Fred cut her off, having anticipated such an objection. "Don't worry, Hermione," he told her, "We paid him well for his trouble."

"Although we didn't ask him to make it look like _that_," added George. "We just asked for a birthday cake. The design was all his own work. You wouldn't have thought he was the artistic type, would you?"

"He helped us smuggle in the Butterbeer as well," continued Fred. "Which is our present to you, by the way, Ron."

"That's for _me?"_ Ron exclaimed, rather taken aback.

"Well, we weren't anticipating you drinking the _whole_ barrel yourself, but yeah. We thought we'd throw you a bit of a party. And I'm sure all the fifth and seventh years could do with a break from revision as well. Well, the seventh years and Hermione," he added, with a sly wink in her direction. "I'm taking a wild guess that the rest of you haven't started yours yet."

He raised his voice and announced loudly to the room, "Come and get it, folks! Free birthday cake and Butterbeer courtesy of our not-so-little brother here! Don't look so worried, Neville, we haven't spiked it. You won't be growing feathers this time."

"Well…" said Ron, uncertainly, still rather suspecting that, since it was the twins, there must be a trick in this somewhere, "Thanks."

Fred clapped him heartily on the back. "No problem! Now come on, are you going to cut this cake or what?"

"None for me, thanks," piped up Seamus, loudly. "I don't fancy eating a bit of Ron's ear."

"Good thing it's only in the shape of his face," grinned Dean, and several people laughed.

"Fine," retorted Ron, flushing crimson. "Don't have any, then."

"He's got a point, though," said Fred, seriously. He glanced from Ron to the cake and back to Ron again. "I mean, the resemblance is uncanny, isn't it? For a moment there I wasn't sure which one was the real you."

Several people laughed and Ron glowered at him. "Sod off," he said, succinctly.

Fred and George exchanged scandalised looks.

"Talk about ungrateful, Fred."

"And after all the effort we put in..."

"I mean, poor Dobby _slaved_ over this cake - not literally, Hermione!" George added hastily, before she could open her mouth to protest.

Ron stepped up to the table to take a closer look at the cake, frowning. "I look like a scarecrow with dragon pox," he grumbled.

"I know you do," said Fred, quick as a flash, "But what do you think of the cake?"

Everyone standing nearby burst out laughing, except for Ron who merely rolled his eyes at the predictable insult, and Hermione, who shot Fred a glare so icy that if he'd been looking in her direction he'd have been turned to stone in an instant. She understood that Fred and George's teasing of her meant she'd been accepted as part of the family, and although she still didn't exactly enjoy it or know how to respond, she did at least know there was no malice behind it. But Ron had been putting up with the twins' remorseless teasing for sixteen years now, and even though he might not say anything at the time, she knew how much he took it to heart.

---

"Happy Birthday, Ronniekins," said George, giving his brother a big one-armed hug and ruffling his hair affectionately so he looked even more like a scarecrow than the cake Ron did. "And remember, you've only got one year left before you're officially an adult and have to start worrying about getting a job and all that stuff. So make the most of it, okay? I know you've got your OWLs coming up, and obviously those are _very_ _important..._" - he rolled his eyes when he said this, rather undermining his own words - "But make sure you have some fun too, yeah? For us?"

"Okay," agreed Ron, smoothing his hair down again quickly before Hermione saw, "I think I can manage that. George?" he added, as his brother made to turn away.

"Yup?"

"When I'm seventeen, will you stop calling me Ronniekins?"

George laughed out loud and shook his head. "Never!"

Ron gave a resigned little shrug and a smile. "Thought not."

"Come on, Ron!" shouted Fred, impatiently. "Hurry up and blow out the candles so we can start eating this cake!"

So Ron - after a helpful shove in the right direction from George - leant down and blew out all sixteen candles in one long breath. Somewhat flushed from the unexpected attention, he beamed happily around at his brothers, sister and friends as they cheered and applauded and all began to sing:

_"Happy Birthday to you,_

_Happy Birthday to you,_

_Happy Birthday dear Ro-on,_

_Happy Birthday to you…"_

---

* * *

---

"So…" grinned Seamus, throwing himself down on the sofa beside Ron and causing him to slop half his Butterbeer down himself in the process, "How does it feel to be legal?"

Ron frowned. "What do you mean?"

Seamus laughed and shook his head. "Ask Granger," he said, mysteriously. "She knows everything, doesn't she?"

Ron opened his mouth to pursue the subject further, but Seamus was already distracted by something else.

"I tell you what, though," he said, nudging Ron in the ribs with a gleeful grin, "_That_ should be made illegal… know what I mean?"

Ron followed his gaze to a couple of leggy, gorgeous-and-they-knew-it seventh year girls who had just walked through the door, causing a frisson of excitement to ripple through the male population of the room.

"I mean, _Jaysus_…" grinned Seamus, boggling at them shamelessly across the room, "I wouldn't mind having a go on that, would you? Especially the blonde. I mean, they must weigh more than her _head_…"

Ron choked on his cake, and hoped fervently that his face wasn't quite as red as it felt. "Yeah," he coughed, "They're very… er…"

"Can you imagine having _those _bouncing up and down on top of you? I reckon I'd have a heart attack on the spot!"

"It'd be a good way to die, though."

"Oh, yeah, I wouldn't be complaining!"

They both fell silent, staring at the girls in awestruck admiration.

"She's _so_ gorgeous," breathed Seamus, "See, that's what You-Know-Who should do instead of recruiting people like Lucius Malfoy to become Death Eaters; get some really well-stacked girls to do the job. They wouldn't even need to Imperius me, I'd follow them willingly. Anything she asked, I reckon I'd do."

"So you're saying you'd sell your family to You-Know-Who for a quick feel of boob?"

Seamus laughed out loud. "That's about the size of it! Come on, you're telling me you _wouldn't?"_

Ron laughed too. "Maybe. It would depend whose boobs it was."

"Nah," said Seamus, shaking his head, "You're too fussy. I'd do it for a feel of _anyone's_ boobs."

"Umbridge?" suggested Ron, with a grin.

"Feck off, I didn't mean the teachers! _Although_… Madam Pomfrey... I wouldn't mind waking up to _her_ leaning over me next time I'm in the hospital wing, know what I mean?"

Ron choked on a laugh. "I _have_ had her leaning over me in the hospital wing! _Several_ times!"

"Lucky sod. She can give me a bed bath anytime."

"What's a bed bath?" asked Ron, curiously.

"It's when you're too ill to get out of bed and the nurse has to wash you down with a wet sponge."

_Wet sponge._ Ron suddenly had a flashback to last summer at Grimmauld Place; a dishevelled Hermione brandishing a wet sponge at him and laughing. He crossed his legs hurriedly and coughed to cover the odd noise that had just come from his mouth.

"Yeah, but you wouldn't actually be... you know..." - he glanced around quickly to check Hermione was nowhere nearby, and lowered his voice, just to be sure - _"Naked?"_

Seamus gave a snort of derision. "'Course you would, yer eejit! Usually have a bath with your clothes on, do you?"

Ron flushed even more crimson. "Oh. Er..."

"I'd do Madame Hooch as well," Seamus went on, happily unaware of Ron's discomfort. "It's the broom thing."

"The broom thing?" repeated Ron distractedly, still thinking about Hermione and that wet sponge.

"Yeah. There's just something about a woman who's good on a broom… starts you thinking what _else_ she might be good at, know what I mean? Take Angelina, for instance…"

He nudged Ron in the ribs and nodded over at Angelina, who was standing talking to Ginny, George and Katie by the fireplace. "I mean," observed Seamus, with the air of someone who had spent a great deal of time studying the subject, "All that time she spends with a big, hard broom between her legs… she must have thighs like a steel trap!"

They both laughed, and Ron shook his head. "Doesn't do it for me, I'm afraid."

Seamus gaped at him. "You're joking! My God, man, what's _wrong_ with you?"

"Well… put it this way; every time I start to think about her like _that_, I suddenly remember there's quite a high chance she's probably shagged my brother, and that tends to put me off a bit."

Seamus laughed. "Oh, well, that's fair enough then! Wouldn't put _me_ off, though."

"Big surprise," said Ron, dryly. "Would anything?"

"Probably not," admitted Seamus, with a grin. His gaze drifted back to Angelina again. "Do you all have showers together after the match as well? Oh, _please_ tell me you do..."

"Oh yeah," said Ron sarcastically, "We all strip off and jump in a big bath together. No, of course we don't, you twit. There are four girls on the team, for fuck's sake. And one of them's my _sister_."

Seamus laughed, and then shot Ron a mischievous sideways glance. "You do realise I'm now thinking about your sister in the shower, don't you?"

Ron thumped him very hard in the arm and he yelped. "Ow! Joking! I'm _joking!"_

"You'd better be," said Ron, severely.

"Jesus," complained Seamus, rubbing his sore arm, "Is this what you were like when she starting going out with that Ravenclaw kid? Gotta hand it to him though; he must have balls of steel to ask out a girl with six older brothers. Or a deathwish."

Ron shook his head. "Nah, Ginny's much scarier than all six of us put together. She does what she wants; we don't get a say in it. And if we did, she'd probably go and do the exact opposite just to annoy us."

"Must be weird though; her having a boyfriend. She's a year younger than you, isn't she?"

"Eighteen months," corrected Ron automatically. "But yeah, it is a bit weird. Not much I can do about it, though. I just wish she'd picked someone better, that's all."

"Maybe he's really good at snogging," suggested Seamus, slyly. "Or _other_ things..."

Ron narrowed his eyes at him. "Do you want me to thump you again?"

"I bet he has, though."

"Has _what?"_

"You know... copped a feel."

"I bet he hasn't."

"You _hope_ he hasn't."

Ron shook his head. "Ginny's not like that."

"_All_ girls are like that."

"Oh, _I'm_ sorry," said Ron, his voice loaded with sarcasm, "And you'd know, would you? How many girlfriends have you had again?"

Seamus affected outrage. "More than _you!"_

"We're not talking about me, are we? Anyway, what do you _mean_, more than me?"

"Well... you haven't had _any_, have you?"

"Nor have you!"

"Yeah, I have! I went out with a girl back home for three whole weeks!"

"When?" demanded Ron.

"Last summer!"

"Convenient."

"I _did!"_

"Bollocks."

"Well, alright, I went out with Lavender as well, you must be able to remember _that_."

"You didn't go _out _with her," protested Ron, "You went to the _ball _with her! It's not the same thing!"

"Still counts," said Seamus, stubbornly.

"No, it doesn't!"

"It was a _date_, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, and I went to the ball with Padma Patil, but that doesn't make her my _girlfriend!"_

"No," said Seamus, testily, "But that's because she ditched you after about five minutes and spent the rest of the evening wrapped around some blond French kid!"

"Whatever," retorted Ron, annoyed.

There was a short silence. They both took a long draught of their Butterbeer.

"Anyway," said Seamus, returning to the subject of their earlier disagreement, "My point is, it doesn't matter whether _she's _like that or not. He _is_ like that."

"How do _you_ know? You've never even _spoken_ to him!"

Seamus shrugged. "I don't have to, do I? He's fourteen; all he thinks about is whether she'll let him see her tits."

Ron opened his mouth and closed it again soundlessly.

"You know I'm right," said Seamus, with an infuriatingly smug grin.

"I don't have to like it, though," said Ron. "And by the way, if any part of your dirty little mind is thinking about my sister's tits right now, you're _dead_."

Seamus laughed and held his hands up in mock-defence. "Sorry, mate, I know you don't want to hear it, but it's just a _fact_. Your sister's _hot_."

"I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that."

Seamus shrugged. "You can pretend all you like. It still doesn't change the fact that half the blokes in this room would sell their kidneys for five minutes in a broom cupboard with her. No, scratch that, make that _all _the blokes in this room apart from you, Fred and George, and that really camp fourth year kid who wears eyeliner."

Ron looked rather sick at this unwelcome new piece of information. _"You _don't fancy her, though?"

"'Course I do," said Seamus, blithely. "I'm not _dead. _Not that I'd _do_ anything, mind. It's not right, is it? Your mate's sister. It's like fancying his mam."

Ron gaped at him in horror. "Please Shay, _please _don't tell me you fancy my mum as well!"

Seamus laughed and shook his head. "What's wrong with your mam?" he joked. "Nah, but I tell you what, have you seen _Malfoy's _mam? Jaysus, Mary and Joseph!"

_"Malfoy's _mum? You're even sicker than I thought you were, Shay. And that's saying something."

"What?" asked Seamus, innocently. "She's married to Malfoy's dad; I bet she'd be grateful."

Ron laughed. "It would almost be worth it for the look on Malfoy's face when he found out," he admitted. _"'Oh, by the way, Draco, did I mention I fucked your mum?'_"

"Yeah, it's a shame he hasn't got a sister!"

They both laughed.

"Talking of sisters..." said Seamus slyly, as Ginny detached herself from the crowd and threw herself down on the sofa between them.

"Angelina's been bending my bloody ear about tactics again!" she told them, furiously. "I mean, for frig's sake, it's _supposed_ to be a _party!"_

"I know," said Ron, sympathetically, shooting Seamus an 'I'll get you later' look over her shoulder. "Have some cake."

"And that's another thing!" exploded Ginny, so loudly it made both boys jump. "She told me not to eat too much cake because I need to be in top form for practice tomorrow! Can you believe it?"

"Ron's on his third slice," pointed out Seamus, helpfully.

"It's _my_ cake!" protested Ron. _"Jesus!"_

"Did Angelina tell _you_ not to eat too much cake?" demanded Ginny.

"No, but then I can eat whatever I like and never put on any weight."

"Oh, thanks!" said Ginny, sarcastically. "God, how do I manage to ever catch the Snitch with my _massive arse _weighing down the broom?"

"Did I say you had a fat arse?" protested Ron, indignantly.

"You implied it."

"I didn't!"

"Well, I think you've got a very nice arse," piped up Seamus, helpfully. "Much nicer than his bony one, anyway."

"Oh, you've been comparing them, have you?" flashed back Ginny immediately. "Something you want to confess, Seamus? Ron? Are congratulations in order?"

Seamus burst out laughing while Ron flushed crimson. "Shut up," he told her, "Have some cake."

She sighed. "I think I will, actually. Sod Angelina." She jumped up and disappeared in the direction of the cake table.

Ron turned to say something to Seamus and found him with his head on one side and an admiring expression on his face, blatantly watching Ginny walk away.

"Hey!" he said, sharply.

"What?" protested Seamus, laughing. "I can _look_, can't I?"

"No," said Ron, firmly. "You _can't_. I can give out detentions, remember?"

"What, for looking at your sister's arse?" exclaimed Seamus, horrified. "I'd like to see you explain _that_ one to McGonagall. Or Granger, come to think of it."

Ron's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "What about her?" he demanded.

Seamus shrugged. "Well, she's a stickler for the rules, isn't she? I can't see her being too delighted about you giving out detentions willy-nilly. Abusing your position and all that." He started laughing. "She'd probably put _you_ in detention!"

"Prefects can't put other prefects in detention," said Ron automatically. "It's against the rules."

Seamus shot him a look of pure disgust.

_"What?" _demanded Ron, annoyed.

Seamus merely shook his head. "You've been hanging around with Miss Goody-Two-Shoes for too long, you know that?"

Ron didn't respond for a few moments, then he just said, "Shay?"

"Yeah?"

"Fuck off."

---

* * *

---

"_Please_ don't tell me you're actually doing _revision_."

Hermione glanced up in surprise. Ginny was standing in front of her with a glass of foaming Butterbeer in one hand and a plate of birthday cake in the other, and wearing a very Ginny-like sardonic expression.

"I'm just reading."

"Yeah, a _Charms textbook._ I call that revision. You know, it's _supposed_ to be a _party_."

"Yes, and our exams are in -"

"Three months. Yes, I _know_." She flopped down in the chair next to Hermione's and balanced her plate carefully on the arm. "Come on, at least let me get you a Butterbeer."

"I can't; these are library books. Madame Pince would have a fit if I spilled anything on them."

_"I'll _have a fit if I have to sit here and watch you revise. Come on, Hermione, you can give yourself one night off, surely?"

Hermione sighed. "You're going to keep on at me until I do, aren't you?"

Ginny merely shrugged in confirmation.

"Fine," said Hermione, closing her book reluctantly. "I suppose it _is_ Friday, so I can always catch up tomorrow."

The corners of Ginny's mouth twitched slightly. _"Fine. _Now, have you had a piece of Ron's birthday cake yet?"

Hermione nodded and Ginny laughed. "Did you have a bit of his ear or his nose?"

Hermione laughed too. "A bit of his hair, actually," she told the other girl, wondering why she suddenly felt so warm. She could feel Ginny watching her and decided a change of subject was called for. "How are things with Michael?" she asked, quickly. "I meant to ask before, but I've just been so busy lately."

"Yeah," said Ginny, with a massive lack of enthusiasm, "Alright."

The two girls exchanged looks and then burst out laughing.

"No, I didn't mean it like that. He's nice. He's great. Really."

She lowered her voice, leaned in close and told Hermione impishly, _"He's a really good kisser!"_

Hermione laughed but at the same time she felt an odd sort of hollow sensation in her stomach. She wouldn't have a clue whether a boy was a good kisser or not. She hadn't enough experience to tell. It didn't seem fair, somehow. Ginny was almost two whole years younger than her, and she was already bored of her first boyfriend. But then, Ginny was the kind of smart that boys liked. Smart but funny. Smart but pretty. Smart but sporty. Smart but popular. Smart but still one of the boys.

"I hate to say it," Ginny went on, "But you were right."

"I was? About what?"

"Your advice to help me forget about Harry. Go out with some other people, be my own person, get on with my life."

Hermione was rather surprised. "So you're over him now?"

A faint ironic smile crossed the other girl's lips. "I wouldn't say that. I still get this funny pang when he's in the room or someone mentions his name. But it's more of a dull ache now. Slightly less like being stabbed in the heart."

Hermione nodded. She knew how that felt. "It must have been hard, seeing him with Cho."

Ginny gave a high, mirthless laugh. "Oh, God, that whiney cow?" She caught Hermione's disapproving look and pulled a face. "Oh, don't look at me like that, Hermione, she's _always_ been a whiney cow, even before her boyfriend got murdered."

"That's a bit harsh, Ginny."

The other girl shrugged. "Well, it's true. Anyway, they only went out for a few months and she's _still _playing the grieving widow almost a year later."

"Maybe she really loved him."

Ginny gave a disbelieving snort. "Yeah, maybe. And maybe she just likes all the attention, and crying on Harry's shoulder. 'Oh, boo-hoo, poor me, I'm so beautiful and tragic, please love me!'"

She caught Hermione's raised eyebrows and broke into an embarrassed grin. "Yeah, I'm completely over him, aren't I?"

"Completely," agreed Hermione, with a smile.

Ginny shook her head. "Why do you think I waited until Harry got banned before trying out for the team?"

Hermione stared at her. Of course! Why had she not realised it before? It seemed so obvious now.

"And before you say anything," Ginny continued, "Yes; I _do_ know it's pathetic. Giving up your ambitions over a boy. But I knew I wouldn't be able to concentrate and play to the best of my abilities with him there all the time." She glanced over at Harry, who was standing chatting to Dean and Neville. "Distracting me with that whole dark-haired moody and mysterious thing he does."

She shook her head at her own folly and they both laughed.

"Damn that moody and mysterious thing!" Hermione joked, thinking even as she said it that moody and mysterious were rather over-rated qualities, especially in a potential boyfriend. Of course, there was a lot more to Harry than just those two things, and Ginny knew that as well as she did. Fine for Ginny, if that was what she wanted. But Hermione knew _herself _well enough to realise that it wasn't what she wanted or needed. And oh, God, even now she was smiling thinking about him, and in front of his _sister_, too!

"What will you do if the ban gets lifted next year?" she asked hastily, "You won't give up?"

Ginny shook her head. "No. It means too much to me now. And anyway, I'm completely over him, remember?"

They exchanged understanding smiles, then Ginny rubbed her eyes wearily. "Oh, look, Michael's great and everything, he's just… I dunno, he's just not the _forever _boyfriend, do you know what I mean?"

"Well, I should hope not!" said Hermione, primly. "You're only fourteen, Ginny. Anyway, no-one marries their first boyfriend these days, you know."

"My mum did," Ginny pointed out, and then sighed. "But yeah, I know what you mean. Don't get me wrong, it's not that I _want_ him to be either. That's not really what I'm looking for at the moment. I just want to have a bit of fun."

"Oh, good!" beamed Hermione, immediately thinking of Ron. "Well, I'm glad he makes you laugh. It's very important."

Ginny raised her eyebrows. "I didn't exactly mean that kind of fun," she said dryly, and Hermione felt herself blushing.

"Oh," she said, weakly, and then frowned as she replayed Ginny's words in her head. "But… you don't mean… you haven't… _done_ anything yet, have you?"

"'Course not!" retorted Ginny. She put on a breathy, girly voice: "What kind of girl do you _take_ me for? No, don't worry about me. I can take care of myself. I don't let him _do_ anything. It's just, you know, a bit of snogging and stuff."

Hermione raised her eyebrows. _"Stuff?" _she asked, sternly.

Ginny sighed. "Oh, Hermione, you're just like my mum sometimes! Don't worry; I'm not doing anything you wouldn't do."

Hermione nodded, but privately she thought that actually, there was quite a lot that she would do, that Ginny would be rather shocked to hear about. Not, of course, that she was likely to have the opportunity any time soon.

"Ginny…" she began, hesitantly."Can I ask you something?"

"Fire away."

"Ron's Christmas present."

Ginny guffawed loudly. "What, the homework planner? Yeah, that really wasn't one of your better ideas!"

Hermione glared at her. "I meant _his_ present to _me_, actually," she said, testily. "The _perfume_. And I was _trying_ to be helpful."

Ginny tried to rearrange her expression into one of contrition, with not much success. "I know, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to laugh. It's just… Well, you've known Ron and Harry for how long? Five years? And you seriously thought that you could change five years of bad habits with a _talking homework planner?"_

Hermione shrugged helplessly. "I thought they might find them useful when they started revising for exams. I've found mine absolutely _invaluable_."

"And _have _they started revising for their exams?"

"Well, no," admitted Hermione. "But that's why they need the homework planners! I mean, our exams are _three months away! _They're not even worried! It's ridiculous!_"_

Ginny looked as though she was just about managing to restrain herself from rolling her eyes. "So what about this perfume, then?"

Hermione hesitated. She rather wished she hadn't brought it up. "It's not important."

"No, come on, what did you want to ask me?"

"Well… did he say anything to _you_ about it?"

"Like what?"

"Well… did he ask you for advice? What to buy, or..."

Ginny leant back in her chair and surveyed Hermione with a slight frown. "If you mean, did I put him up to it, then the answer's no."

Hermione shook her head. "I just don't understand why he'd buy me something like that and then not do anything about it."

"Have _you _done anything about it?" Ginny asked, shrewdly.

"No, but... that's different. He's the one who… I mean, why would you buy a girl _perfume_, and then act as though nothing's changed at all? How can I have _possibly_ have misinterpreted something like _perfume?" _She let out a frustrated sigh. "Oh, look, ignore me. I've obviously just read far too much into it, that's all. It's just perfume. It doesn't mean anything."

Ginny snorted, and Hermione glanced up at her. "What?" she asked, defensively.

"Ask me what Ron got me for Christmas."

Hermione frowned, not sure what she was getting at. "What did Ron get you for Christmas?"

"A box of jellybeans. Ask me what he got Bill."

Hermione opened her mouth, but Ginny didn't give her time to speak.

"A box of jellybeans. Fred and George got jellybeans too. Remember what _Harry _got from Ron for Christmas?"

"Jellybeans?" offered Hermione, timidly.

"Yep. Jellybeans. Apart from Mum and Dad, _everyone_ got jellybeans for Christmas this year. And do you know why?"

Hermione shook her head, although she thought she had an inkling where this was going.

"Because he spent all his Christmas money on a bottle of perfume for _you_."

"Oh," said Hermione, but her heart was already feeling lighter. She bent her head to hide her smile. "So you really think it meant something, then?"

_"Yes," _said Ginny, wearily. "You _know_ it did."

"But then why hasn't he _said_ something?"

Ginny just shrugged.

"Well, I suppose if _I _don't know, I can't expect _you_ to."

Ginny gave a high, disbelieving laugh, and Hermione looked up, startled.

"Sometimes," said Ginny coolly, "I think you forget that I was Ron's best friend for _ten years_ before he even _met_ you. So I think I know him pretty well, actually."

Hermione was so shocked that for a moment she could not speak. "Yes, but - I know, but -" She shook her head. "No, you're right. Of course you're right. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to imply -"

But Ginny cut her off. "No, it's fine, I'm sorry too. I know you didn't mean anything by it. I was just getting on my high horse. Forget I said it."

Hermione nodded, and they exchanged tight, awkward little smiles.

"Okay, said Ginny, "Confession time. I used to be really jealous of you."

"Of _me?"_ exclaimed Hermione, somewhat taken aback by this admission. _"Why?"_

Ginny shrugged. "Well, I suppose because after the twins left, it was just me and Ron at home with Mum for two years, and we got really close. We've always been closer to each other than anyone else in the family, of course, just because there's only eighteen months between us, and because we're the youngest. That's how it works in big families. You need an ally. Fred and George. Bill and Charlie. Me and Ron."

Hermione noted that she made no mention of Percy, but tactfully chose to keep quiet.

"And then he went off to school and met _you_. When he came home at the end of first year it was all Hermione this and Hermione that. I suppose I felt like I was being replaced."

"But everyone has to make new friends when they go to a new school! You wouldn't have wanted him to not make any friends at _all_, surely?"

"Of course not. And I could understand _Harry_, I mean, who wouldn't want to be friends with the famous Harry Potter? But _you_... I suppose it was because you were another girl, you were more of a threat."

They were silent for a few moments, as Hermione digested this information.

"So what made you change your mind?"

"I don't know. I suppose I _met_ you, and you weren't at all like I expected you to be."

"What did you expect me to be like?" asked Hermione, intrigued.

"Honestly?" said Ginny, with a slightly sheepish shrug, "I thought you'd be really glamorous."

Hermione stared at her for half a second, and then burst into disbelieving laughter. _"Glamorous?_ I don't think I've ever been called _that_ before! You do know that my parents are _dentists, _right?"

Ginny laughed too. "I know, but bear in mind we grew up only mixing with other witches and wizards. To us, Muggleborns _were_ glamorous. All my brothers have had a thing for Muggle and Muggleborn girls. There's just something about them. Bill and Charlie used to bring these girls home and the rest of us were in such _awe_ of them. They talked differently from us, they dressed differently, they talked of places we'd never heard of and things we didn't understand. They were just _different_, and I suppose that's what made them so interesting. Honestly, I guarantee that when you first met, you were as exotic and glamorous to Ron as..." - she cast around for a suitable example - "Fleur Delacour!"

"I guarantee you I _wasn't," _Hermione retorted, rather stung by the comparison. _"_He didn't even _like_ me when we first met."

She felt a sharp pang at the thought of how they'd very nearly not been friends at all, and what her life would be like now. It was too awful to even contemplate.

"Doesn't matter," said Ginny, "You'd still have been intriguing to him. Just as I imagine he must have been to you," she added, with a slightly knowing raise of an eyebrow. "I mean, I don't suppose you'd met many wizards up to that point."

"It wasn't just Ron," Hermione protested, flushing slightly. "It was everything _about_ the wizarding world. It was all so new and exciting and strange to me. I wanted to find out everything I could about it."

"Well, that's how we felt about _you!" _laughed Ginny, "Although probably not to the extent of reading a load of _books_ on the subject..."

Hermione laughed too. "I'm glad we're friends now. It's nice to have a girl to talk to sometimes."

"Me too," nodded Ginny. "Most of my friends are boys. I'm just not used to being around girls, I suppose. Most of them talk an awful load of rubbish, but you're alright."

"Oh, thanks!" exclaimed Hermione, and they both laughed, then her smile faded to a frown.

"So he definitely hasn't said anything to you, then?" she persisted, still convinced there must be something Ginny wasn't telling her. "You know… about _me?_"

Ginny shook her head. "You're joking, aren't you? Ron would rather give up _chocolate_ than talk to his little sister about something like that."

"Do you think he talks to Harry about it?"

Ginny considered for a moment, then their eyes met, and they both shook their heads and laughed.

"Do I even need to answer that?" said Ginny.

"I know, you're right," nodded Hermione. "Boys don't talk about that sort of thing. I mean, Harry didn't say anything to Ron when he fancied Cho -" She stopped abruptly as Ginny winced at the name. "Sorry. I didn't mean -"

"It's fine," said Ginny, with a small, stiff shrug. "I'm with Michael now. Harry's allowed to have a girlfriend if he wants. I just wish…" She sighed, and changed the subject abruptly. "Look, I don't know why Ron hasn't made a move. He's a bloke. Who knows why they do anything?"

"Well, if _you_ don't know, with six brothers…"

They both laughed. "Exactly!" agreed Ginny. "Honestly, there's no point in getting all stressed about it." A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Your exams are in _three months_, remember?"

"Oh, shut up," said Hermione, with a smile. "You wait 'til next year when it's your turn. You won't be laughing then."

"Thanks," said Ginny, dryly. "If it's alright with you, I'll wait until at least September before I start worrying about my OWLs. I've got enough to worry about with bloody Quidditch at the moment."

"I know," said Hermione, sympathetically. "Ron and Harry talk about nothing else these days."

"Well, that's boys for you," said Ginny. "Quidditch, food and girls, that's all they think about. Not necessarily in that order, of course," she added, with a grin.

Hermione frowned. "Do you really think so?"

"I _know_ so. Six brothers, remember?"

Hermione shook her head. "I'm not so sure, to be honest. I mean, there's this ridiculous assumption that all girls think about is shoes and boys and shopping, and that isn't true either."

Ginny gave a great dirty cackle of a laugh. "Well, one out of three is!"

Hermione managed a weak smile. "So what are your other two, then?"

"Probably food and Quidditch, to be honest," admitted Ginny. "I'm basically a boy in disguise!" She chuckled. "Anyway, what's the point in caring about shoes and shopping when you haven't the money to buy either?"

She laughed merrily, and Hermione wondered how it was that Ginny could be so matter-of-fact and unembarrassed about the Weasleys' financial situation, while Ron was so prickly about the subject. She remembered Ginny's reaction to having to wear an old-fashioned second-hand set of dress robes to the ball - a shrug and a wry joke - compared to Ron's near-total meltdown. Even now he still brought it up in conversation occasionally, usually as part of a bitter tirade that included the phrase "most embarrassing moment of my life".

---

But then Ginny seemed pretty much unembarrassable about _everything_. She shrugged off the twins' teasing, she didn't seem to be having any of the same problems with confidence on the Quidditch pitch that her brother was, she didn't care what people thought about her clothes or her family's lack of money... She wasn't even embarrassed about her crush on Harry. It was just a fact, so why try to hide it?

"So what are _your_ other two?" asked Ginny, taking another swig of her Butterbeer.

"Hmm?" said Hermione, still rather distracted. "Oh. Well, at the moment, it's exams and more exams, I'm afraid. I don't have much time to think about anything else, to be honest."

Ginny looked amused. "So poor Ron's dropped to third, has he?"

"Mm," said Hermione, evasively. "It's probably a good thing that nothing's happened, actually. Our exams are too important. I could do without the distraction. We _all_ could."

"Maybe that's why he hasn't said anything," said Ginny, wryly. "He doesn't want to distract you from your revision."

"Yes," nodded Hermione, missing the sarcasm, "I'm sure that's it."

"Hmm," said Ginny.

They were both silent for several minutes, Ginny sipping her Butterbeer and Hermione pretending to read her textbook, when in reality she was thinking about this new revelation of Ginny's. Now that she knew Ron had spent so much money on her Christmas present, it made even _less_ sense that he still hadn't said anything. She shook her head in disbelief. Boys were supposed to be transparent and obvious, but sometimes she had literally no idea what was going on in his head. Apart from the three things Ginny had mentioned anyway, she thought, flushing slightly at the idea. She was quite sure Ginny was exaggerating. And anyway -

"Anyway, what about boys who _aren't _interested in Quidditch?" she exclaimed, suddenly. "Percy, for one!" She glanced around the room wildly, certain that there were plenty of other boys she could use to prove her point.

"Replace Quidditch with 'sucking up to the Ministry' and it's basically the same thing," shrugged Ginny, unfazed. "It doesn't _have_ to be Quidditch. For Fred and George, it's this joke shop idea of theirs. For Charlie, it's dragons. For Bill, it's the thrill of doing a dangerous job." She let out a frustrated sigh. "For me and Ron, it's Quidditch. Although the way we played last week, life would be a lot easier if it wasn't."

Hermione followed her gaze over to where Angelina was standing.

"I mean, I do know where she's coming from," Ginny went on, dully, "It's her last year at school and her last chance to win the cup. And on top of all that, she's Captain, so how we play reflects badly on her. And obviously she's got her final exams coming up as well, so she's even more stressed than usual. I'd like to win it for _her_, more than anything, but I just don't think we've got a chance."

She sighed, and ran a weary hand through her long red hair. "I'd never admit it, but we really need Fred and George back. They were the backbone of the team. Sloper and Kirke just aren't in the same league. And you know I love him, but I really wish Ron would either just resign or get his bloody act together. Every time the Quaffle went anywhere near him last Saturday I had to look away. It's just too painful."

"I know," agreed Hermione. "I watched most of the match through my hands as well." She sighed. "I know I shouldn't, but sometimes I feel the same as you and wish he'd just give the whole thing up. It just seems to make him so _miserable_."

"_Awww," _teased Ginny. "Do you want to kiss it better?"

Hermione looked away quickly and opened the book on her lap to avoid looking at Ginny. "No," she mumbled, feeling her entire face heat up.

"Liar," said Ginny, clearly amused.

"I've, um, just got to, er…" _Think, Hermione, think! _"Go to the library!"

"What for?" asked Ginny, sceptically.

"Forgot something," mumbled Hermione, still unable to look the other girl in the face. She got to her feet hurriedly and hauled her heavy school bag onto her shoulder. "I'll see you later, okay?"

---

* * *

---

"So who do you reckon's gonna win the House Cup this year?"

Ron sighed wearily. "Well, not _us_, that's for sure. Maybe Hufflepuff? To be honest, I don't really care, just as long as the Slytherins don't win. You can just imagine how smug Malfoy would be about it."

"Even smugger than usual?" suggested Seamus, with a grin.

"Exactly," agreed Ron. "Seriously, I don't think I could stand it if they win. I might have to punch him."

Seamus laughed. "How many punches d'you reckon it'd take to wipe that self-satisfied smile off his face?"

Ron laughed too. "Got to be at least a couple of hundred!"

"Oh, at least!"

Seamus stared down into his glass thoughtfully. "You're right, though. If it can't be us, I don't care who wins, just as long as it's not the Slytherins." His eyes widened in sudden excitement. "Did I ever tell you how they celebrate when they win?"

Ron considered. "Do they drown some kittens?"

Seamus laughed out loud. "Probably, but that's not what I meant! No, listen, this is _amazing _-" He glanced around quickly, leant in confidentially, and lowered his voice so Ron had to lean forward himself to hear him. _"Apparently_, a few years ago, there was a Slytherin team that consisted of one bloke, who was the Captain, and six girls. And when they won, guess what they did to celebrate?"

Ron waited.

"They all gave him blow jobs!" exclaimed Seamus, his eyes alight in wonder at the thought of it. "All six of them! Imagine it!"

They were both silent for a moment, imagining, then Ron shook his head. "When was this?" he asked, sceptically.

"I dunno," retorted Seamus, impatiently, "A few years ago. Who _cares?"_

"Well… because as long as we've been at this school, the Slytherin team have all been _blokes_."

"It was before our time, then."

"Well, I've had brothers at this school for _ten years _before we got here, and they never said anything about it."

"Because it's supposed to be a _secret_, you idiot! You think they'd go around broadcasting something like that?"

Ron shook his head. "Shay… it's a good story, but _come on_… _really?"_

Seamus glared at him. "You have to go and spoil it, don't you?"

Ron laughed. "It's not _my_ fault! It's clearly bollocks!"

"What, you don't think it's the sort of thing they'd do?"

"I wouldn't put anything past the Slytherins, mate. I just don't think it's _true_, that's all."

Seamus was determined not to let go of such a juicy story just yet. "Maybe. _Or… no, wait! _Maybe they _were_ all blokes, and they made up the story to cover themselves." He started laughing. "You know, not wanting people to find out their sick little secret..."

"Oh_, God," _breathed Ron, fervently, "I _so_ want that to be true. Let Malfoy be gay. That would be the best news _ever."_

Seamus chuckled. "Hey, you know Crabbe and Goyle? They're not his henchmen, they're his _bitches_…"

Ron was struggling to keep a straight face. "Makes sense when you think about it. I mean, why else would he hang around with such a couple of mentally-retarded gorillas?"

Seamus bit back a laugh. "'Xactly!"

_"Or_… maybe there's a very good reason _they_ hang around with _him!"_

_"_Yeah, maybe Daddy buying them new broomsticks wasn't the _real _reason Malfoy got on the team! Maybe he's got, you know, _other talents_…"

They were both almost crying with laughter now, Seamus clutching at his chest in actual pain, he was laughing so much.

"_Noooo_…" begged Ron, "Please... stop… that's not an image I want in my head…"

"Something funny?"

They both looked up to see Hermione standing there beside them, her arms laden with several large, heavy books. Ron silently prayed she hadn't been standing there long enough to hear anything of the rest of the conversation.

She dumped the pile of books she was carrying on the nearest table with a thud so loud it made both the boys jump ("Funtime's over, then?" muttered Seamus under his breath), and then settled into an armchair and opened the top book on the pile.

Ron stared at her. "You're _not _going to do some _revision!" _he exclaimed, appalled.

"Well, what's wrong with that? Don't I do revision _every _night?"

Ron continued to frown at her, but she clearly wasn't going to realise what he was getting at, so eventually he just sighed and reminded her, "It's my _birthday_…"

"I know," she explained, as though it was perfectly obvious. "That's why I'm revising _here _and not in the library."

Seamus gave a short bark of laughter and buried his head in his hands in disbelief. Hermione glared at him.

"And on that note…" he said, getting to his feet with an exaggerated sigh and patting Ron sympathetically on the shoulder, "Thanks for the cake, mate."

"No problem," Ron told him. He turned to Hermione again. "Can't it wait 'til tomorrow? You've got all weekend to do it."

_"Hey, Granger!" _

They both looked up automatically. Seamus hadn't quite left yet.

_"What?" _asked Hermione, warily.

Seamus paused for effect, then nodded towards Ron, a sly smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Ron's got something he wants to ask you!"

Hermione's head reeled and for a moment she thought she might pass out. Oh, God, was this _it? _Was he finally going to ask her out? Surely he wasn't really going to do it _here_, in the common room, in front of everyone they knew? Oh, _no! _Why did she suddenly have the urge to jump up from her chair and run out of the room?

They looked at each other, both rather confused, but for different reasons.

"Have you?" she asked, faintly.

"No," said Ron, having not the slightest clue what Seamus was talking about.

Hermione's heart sank. "Oh. Okay, then." She picked up her book and opened it, just for something to do.

"Oh, wait!" he exclaimed, slapping his forehead in realisation, "Yeah! Yeah, he said I should ask you what being legal means."

Hermione stared back at him blankly. She had convinced herself that what he wanted to ask was _the_ question so completely that his words made no sense to her at all. He might as well have been speaking French.

"What do you mean; _legal?" _

Ron laughed. "That's what I said! No, see, Seamus asked me, 'How does it feel to be legal?', and I didn't know what he meant either, and he said I should ask you. He said you'd know."

"Oh he did, did he?" she said, weakly.

"Yeah. So? What does it mean?"

Hermione kept her eyes fixed firmly on her textbook, but she felt her entire face grow warm. "Um…" she said, stalling for time, "It means, ah…"

She glanced up, saw the expectant look on Ron's face, and realised she was going to have to come up with an answer.

"Well, in the Muggle world, there are age restrictions on when you're allowed to do certain things. Like, you can't drive a car until you're seventeen and you can't vote in an election or legally get served alcohol in a pub until you're eighteen."

"Oh," said Ron, "Right." He considered for a few moments. "Like in the wizarding world you can't Apparate or use magic outside of school until you're seventeen?"

"Yes, that's right," said Hermione, briskly. "Exactly like that."

Ron nodded, and Hermione returned to her book, relieved that the danger seemed to have been averted.

"So what can you do when you're _six_teen, then?"

"Um…" She pretended to be distracted by a particularly complex paragraph in her textbook. "Well…"

Oh, God, why had her mind gone blank? There must be loads of other things you could legally do at sixteen, but there was only one thing she could think of right now, and she had absolutely no intention of saying it out loud.

"You can smoke!" she suddenly remembered, incredibly relieved.

Ron pulled a face. "That's _it?"_

"Yes, you can legally buy cigarettes."

"Big deal! Like I could afford to smoke even if I was allowed to!"

"Yes, and -" She hesitated, keeping her eyes firmly on her book. "You can get married."

"Oh," said Ron.

"Who's getting married?" asked Harry eagerly, joining them and throwing himself down next to Ron on the sofa.

"No-one," retorted Hermione, inwardly cursing his terrible timing.

"Hermione was just telling me all the things I could legally do now I'm sixteen if I was a Muggle," Ron told him.

Harry laughed. "Oh, right, like have sex, you mean?"

There was a short and rather embarrassed silence. Hermione could feel Ron's eyes upon her and kept her head bent low over her book.

"You didn't mention that one!" he said, accusingly.

"I forgot," mumbled Hermione, her face feeling hotter than ever.

"So _that's_ what Seamus meant by legal! I feel like a right idiot now!"

"Is there not an age of consent in the wizarding world, then?" asked Harry, suddenly very interested.

She didn't answer, thinking he was asking Ron.

"Hermione?"

She looked up, rather flustered. "How should I know?"

"You know everything," said Ron, with a grin. "We just assume that if we've got a question, you'll know the answer."

"And if you don't, you'll immediately go to the library and look it up," added Harry.

"Yes, well, you can look it up yourself if you're that bothered about it. I'm actually rather busy. Our exams are in _three months _in case you hadn't noticed."

The boys exchanged wearily amused glances which she pretended not to see.

"I don't reckon there is, you know," said Ron, slowly. "I'm sure I'd have heard about it if there was."

"Yeah, you'd think one of your brothers would have mentioned it."

"Yeah. Although, now I think about it, it probably _is_ seventeen, isn't it? You can do everything _else_ when you come of age."

"Your Mum and Dad were seventeen when they got married, weren't they?"

Ron nodded. "Yeah, something like that. I can't imagine getting married that young. I mean, can you imagine coming back to school for seventh year and being the only bloke in your class with a _wife! _It's mad!"

"You'd have to find yourself a girlfriend first," grinned Harry, and Ron stuck his tongue out at him.

"Hark who's talking, seen much of Cho lately?"

Harry's grin vanished immediately. "Yeah, well," he sighed, "Seeing as how we had the worst first date in _history_… funnily enough, I haven't."

Ron chortled, and Hermione suspected that Ginny wasn't the only one who was secretly quite pleased that Harry and Cho weren't going out anymore.

"Ah, mate, you're well out of it," he said, trying to look sympathetic. "I mean, she cries when you kiss her, she cries on the actual date… sounds too much like hard work to me."

"Yeah," said Harry, and he sounded as though he was trying to convince himself as much as Ron, "You're right, I know."

"I mean, she'd probably cry while you were actually, er -" He stopped dead all of a sudden. The others were both looking at him expectantly and waiting for him to finish the sentence, and he suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to. "Well... you know."

"What?" asked Harry, clearly having no idea what Ron was going on about.

_"You know..." _Ron mumbled, his face and ears now a vivid scarlet. He lowered his voice and hissed, _"Doing _it!"

"Oh," said Harry, weakly, and a slight flush crept up his cheek too. "Yeah, she probably would. Ha ha."

"You shouldn't talk about Cho like that," chided Hermione. "It's not nice."

The boys looked suitably chastened, and for almost a minute nobody spoke. Harry picked up his glass, realised it was empty, and put it down again. Hermione turned another page of her book. Metaphorical tumbleweed blew across the room.

"Anyway, seventeen's way too young," said Ron, blithely resuming their previous conversation as though nothing had happened. "Now that I _am_ nearly seventeen, I can't imagine why they did it. Well… I _know_ why they did it; she was up the duff with Bill, but whenever we ask them about it, they always just say it was because they were _in love_" - he pulled a revolted face, and Hermione rolled her eyes - "and there was a war on, so they didn't want to wait. Bill always says what she _actually_ means is that she didn't want to wait until she started showing, because she'd look like a hippo in the wedding photos."

Harry burst out laughing, but Hermione looked unimpressed.

"I don't suppose there's any chance of you two doing something constructive with your time and starting your Charms essays for Monday?"

"Finished it," said Ron, airily.

She stared at him, trying to work out from his annoyingly smug expression whether he was telling the truth or not.

"Me too," said Harry.

"See, Hermione," said Ron, innocently, "Those homework planners you bought us for Christmas have turned out to be really useful after all."

Harry choked on a laugh, and Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Very funny," she told them.

The boys both laughed, and Harry pointed shamelessly at Ron to deflect her fury. "At least I _opened_ mine!" he protested.

Hermione ignored him and turned to Ron. "Have you really finished it or are you just pulling my leg?"

"I've really finished it," he said. "I knew I wouldn't be able to do it this weekend because we've got practice all day tomorrow and today's my birthday." He shook his head in pretend outrage. "I can't believe you think I'd _lie_ about it. That _hurts_, Hermione."

Hermione wasn't falling for that one. "Well, what about the Astronomy essay that's due in on Tuesday? Have you finished that one, too?"

"Yeah, Ron," piped up Harry, grinning. "What about your _Astronomy_ essay?"

Ron shot him an _'oh, shut up' _look. "No. I haven't finished my Astronomy essay. I haven't even _started_ my Astronomy essay, in fact."

"Well, you can start it now then, can't you?" said Hermione, briskly.

"What?" exclaimed Ron, appalled, "It's my _birthday! _You can't make me do _homework_ on my _birthday!"_

"You wouldn't _have_ to if you'd done it last week when it was handed out. Like _I_ did."

"I had _practice_, didn't I? Come on, what's more important, Quidditch, or a stupid old Astronomy essay?"

Hermione looked as though she would rather not answer that. "That was _last_ week," she pointed out. "You've had six whole days since the match to make a start on it. But I'm sure you've got an excuse for that as well," she added, acidly.

"Hermione," said Ron testily, "Are you _seriously _going to make me write an essay on my _birthday?"_

"I'm not _making _you do _any_thing!I'm just saying... if you started it tonight, you could have Sunday off."

"How about I do it on _Sunday_, then I can have _tonight_ off instead? Since it _is_ supposed to be my _birthday_..."

They glowered at each other for a moment, both infuriated by the other's stubborn stance. Finally Ron shook his head.

_"Fuck it," _he announced, with the air of someone at the end of their tether and driven to take drastic measures; "I'm opening the biscuits!"

---

-

* * *

---

_Endnote:_

_Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed it, and please don't forget to leave a review before you move on to Part Two. Your interval drinks are waiting at the bar.  
_

_Thank you!_

_Pb x_

_

* * *

  
_


	15. Chapter 15: Crumbs Pt Two

**Chapter Fifteen: Crumbs (Part Two)**

_Please note that this is the second part of a 2-part chapter. If you haven't already read the chapter where it's Ron's 16th birthday and the Gryffindors eat a lot of cake, I suggest you go back and read Chapter 14 now. (Or this chapter will make no sense whatsoever!)_

---

Half an hour later and Ron was systematically working his way through the last packet of biscuits, the rest having been polished off in record time by the rest of Gryffindor House. He was rather delicately nibbling all the way around the edge first to make them small enough to dunk in the large mug of steaming hot tea that he had clamped carefully between his knees. The biscuits were thin, so he dunked them for just a fraction of a second and then quickly shoved the warm, sodden remainder of the biscuit into his mouth before it crumbled and fell onto his trousers. He was so intent on the whole methodical business he didn't notice Hermione peering at him over the top of her textbook. Harry was sitting at a nearby table, re-reading_ 'Quidditch Through The Ages' _for the umpteenth time. He kept glancing up at Ron eating the biscuits and shaking his head and giving pointed little sighs. At any minute, thought Hermione, he's going to crack. _Yes!_

"Do you think you could possibly eat those any louder?"

Ron looked up, surprised, and his face cracked into a grin. "Yeah, probably. Want one?"

He pulled a biscuit from the packet and tossed it towards Harry, who, as befitted the youngest Seeker this century, caught it deftly then held it above his head as though it was a trophy he'd won. They both cheered, then laughed, and Hermione lifted her book a little higher to hide her own smile.

Ron turned around at the sound of her laughter, and, with no warning at all, pretended to throw her one too, and then laughed as she made a grab for the invisible biscuit, sending the book on her lap crashing to the floor.

She picked up the book and put it safely down beside her on the chair, and then gestured for him to throw her the biscuit properly.

Ron shook his head solemnly. "Nah, you'd only drop it, and that'd just be a waste of a good biscuit."

Hermione opened her mouth to protest, but before she could say anything, he got up from his chair - her heart started beating a little faster - and told her to hold out her hands - faster still - and emptied the packet out into her cupped hands until she had to tell him to, _"Stop, stop!_ I don't want that many!"

"Yeah, you do," said Ron, throwing her a funny little smile and going back to his own chair. "You're just being polite."

"Hey," protested Harry, "How come she gets half the packet and I only get one?"

Ron was temporarily stumped for an answer. "_Because I don't want to get in your knickers," _he thought to himself, but instead he just shrugged and told Harry, "_She_ gets half the box so I don't have to get up again. _You_ get one at a time so I can have the fun of watching you catch biscuits like you're my pet dog."

Harry pretended to be offended but clearly wasn't, because a moment later he was on his feet demonstrating his impressive catching skills, and they were both falling about laughing. Except that now Ron had run out of biscuits.

"Here, Harry, chuck some of those back to me, will you? I could do with a bit of catching practice too."

Harry, dryly: "Maybe that's the way to make sure you always catch the Quaffle. Replace it with food. Biscuits. Apples. Oranges." He started to laugh. "Pomegranates..."

"Pork pies?" suggested Ron.

_"__Pork pies?"_

Ron shrugged. "Well, I'd rather have a pork pie than a pomegranate."

"Yeah, but there's not much bounce in a pork pie, is there? You want something really round. Like, er…" He cast around for a circular fruit. "Melons!"

"Are melons round?" pondered Ron.

Harry considered. "Well… _water_melons are. But the yellow ones are a bit more like rugby balls."

"What shape are rugby balls?"

"Ummm… like a football, but with a sort of pointy bit at either end."

"Right, 'cos I know what a _foot_ball looks like," said Ron sarcastically.

"Well," said Harry, laughing, "They're _round_. Like -"

"Melons!" they both finished at the same time, and then collapsed into giggles. There was just something inherently funny about the word 'melons'.

Hermione shook her head despairingly. "You two are such _children_ sometimes," she told them, but they were both laughing too much to object.

"Come on, Harry," said Ron, recovering himself and holding his hands out in front of him ready to catch anything Harry might throw. "Chuck us a biscuit."

Harry shook his head. "None left, sorry. Biscuits are supposed to be for eating, not throwing, you know."

"I've got some left if you need more practice," offered Hermione, hopefully.

"Nah," said Ron, shaking his head solemnly. "You can't throw any better than I can catch." He threw her a grin to let her know he was joking.

She pretended to be outraged and hurled one directly at him. For a moment it looked like a perfectly aimed throw but then at the last second, much to her annoyance, it suddenly veered off to the right and smashed onto the floor instead.

Harry laughed and Ron did a slow hand clap. "Thanks for proving my point so spectacularly," he grinned.

She felt her face heat up. "You didn't even _try_ to catch it!" she protested, indignantly.

"Hey, don't blame me because you can't throw strai-"

But before he could finish the sentence she hurled another biscuit, which this time hit him square in the forehead and exploded crumbs all down the front of his t-shirt. There was a collective intake of breath from the others and for a suspended moment nobody moved, unsure of his reaction. Instead, his face unreadably blank, he merely brushed the crumbs down into his lap and, holding the hem of his t-shirt out in front of him, got up from his chair and walked slowly across to where Hermione sat. She squealed when she realised what he was going to do and held up her hands to defend herself. He was much too close now, lifting the hem of his t-shirt even higher so that all she could see was an expanse of pale skin inches away from her face. She felt panic and confusion rising in her chest and tried to shove him away, but it was too late, Ron showered her head with crumbs and then bounded away, laughing.

"Hermione?"

"_What?"_

"I think you've got something in your hair."

"Oh -"

She shook her hair and crumbs flew out in all directions. The boys broke into fresh peals of laughter.

"Hey, Harry," gasped Ron, "You know when you see a dog come out of the sea and it shakes itself dry...?"

Harry let out a great shout of laughter, and Hermione narrowed her eyes at Ron.

"That wasn't funny, you know," she told him, but she couldn't keep up the pretence of anger for long. The boys were laughing so much that she couldn't help but join in.

"Right," announced Harry, decisively, once the laughter had died down, "I think I'm gonna go up and have a bath and then call it a night. What are you two doing?"

"I want to do at least two more hours of revision before I go to bed," said Hermione at once, "Only I'll probably have to go to the library" - she threw a pointed glare at a group of rowdy second year boys loudly play-fighting by the fire - "Since it's far too noisy to revise in here with all this racket going on."

"Oh, great," complained Ron, only half-jokingly, "So _you're_ going off to bed and _you're_ going to the library? Some birthday this is turning out to be!"

Harry gave an apologetic shrug. "Sorry, mate, but our options are kind of limited. It's nearly ten o'clock, it's dark and freezing cold, we're stuck at a boarding school in the middle of nowhere in Scotland, and -" He gestured to the dark sky beyond the window. "It's _sleeting _outside. I mean, if you've got any suggestions..."

"It's alright for you," grumbled Ron. "Your birthday's in the summer holidays. You _always_ get a birthday party."

"Oh, yeah," said Harry sarcastically, "I _always _get a birthday party. Apart from those first eleven years of my life when the Dursleys never even bothered to get me a birthday card…"

Ron looked dismayed. "Sorry, mate, I didn't mean it like that, honest. I was just kidding."

"Oh, yeah," said Harry hastily, realising he might have over-reacted, "Yeah, I know. I was kidding too. Anyway, this time next year you'll be seventeen and we can really celebrate, have a proper party and everything, yeah?"

"Yeah," said Ron, happily. "That'll be awesome. Hey, maybe we can even smuggle some alcohol in from Hogsmeade! Since I'll be able to buy it legally!"

Hermione looked up sharply. "You are a _prefect!" _she admonished him. "You can't bring _alcohol_ into the school!"

Ron rolled his eyes.

"I saw that," she snapped.

"I meant you to," he said dryly. "How about if we only let other people who are of age drink it? Would that be alright with you?"

"No," said Hermione, not realising he was winding her up. "That would _not_ be alright."

"No, that's right, it wouldn't!" exclaimed Harry. "Because I'm not seventeen 'til next July so I wouldn't be able to have any! I'm not sitting here like an idiot watching you two get plastered!"

"_I'm _not drinking any!" protested Hermione, scandalised.

Ron laughed. "Just me then. Excellent!"

Hermione turned on him sharply. "Don't you dare. I'll tell McGonagall."

"You wouldn't!" he exclaimed, horrified.

"I would. And you can say goodbye to your badge, too."

"What a disaster that'd be," muttered Ron, sarcastically.

He and Harry exchanged pointed we'll-still-do-it-but-we-won't-tell-her looks, and sniggered.

Hermione glanced up suspiciously, but they didn't seem to be doing anything wrong, so she returned her gaze to her book again.

"Right!" declared Harry, getting to his feet, "I'm off for a nice long bath. See you later, Ron. Happy Birthday. Enjoy your revision, Hermione."

"I will," said Hermione loftily.

Harry disappeared upstairs to the dorm and Ron and Hermione were left alone. She carried on reading her book, and Ron just sat and watched her distractedly, chewing his fingernails and not thinking about anything in particular.

A sudden burst of cheering and yelling from across the room made them both look up. Two of the rowdy second year boys were now rolling about on the sofa in an impromptu wrestling match, to much noisy encouragement from their friends.

Hermione slammed her book down furiously and started to get to her feet. "Right! That's _it!_ I've had enough!"

But before she could do anything, Ron stood up, jumped onto his chair, and yelled across the common room at the top of his voice, _"Oi!"_

Hermione cringed, as several dozen heads turned to look at him. "Ron, _please_, let me handle -"

"Pack it in, will you? People are trying to revise in here! Have you forgotten what I told you last week?"

The boys stopped fighting, scrambled to their feet, and hung their heads in what was clearly pretend shame.

"Sorry, Ron."

"Yeah, sorry, Ron."

"Alright. Good. Look, if you want to run about and make a racket, go up to the dorm and have a pillow fight or something. That's what it's _for_."

"Sorry, Ron," repeated the taller of the two boys, with a mischievous grin. "We won't do it again."

"Oh, shut up," grinned Ron. He turned around and jumped nonchalantly back down into his seat again.

Hermione gaped at him, astonished.

"What?"

"You just disciplined them!"

Ron merely shrugged. "Well, they were being loud. People have got exams coming up, haven't they? It's not fair on them."

"Yes, I know, but -" Something suddenly occurred to her. "What did you tell them last week?"

"Last week?" he repeated. He gave a sheepish little shrug. "Oh, I just said I'd hex their b- er, _ears_ off if I caught them fighting again, that's all."

Hermione stared at him, not sure whether she should be impressed or appalled.

The corners of Ron's mouth twitched slightly. "And if they wanted to fight someone, they should at least start with the Slytherins..."

She bit back a smile. "You didn't use the word 'ears' at all, did you?"

Ron laughed out loud. "I have no idea what you mean," he said, innocently.

She glanced across the classroom to where the boys were now seated at their chairs again and whispering to each other quietly. "I hate to say it, but you actually handled that rather well."

Ron flushed, and gave a modest little shrug. "Well, I've got brothers..."

Hermione realised she'd been staring at him in awe for several long seconds, and quickly bent her head over her book again, but it was impossible to concentrate.

"I think I might go to the library anyway," she said, glancing at Ron to see his reaction. "I always work better somewhere quiet."

Ron nodded. "Okay."

Hermione still didn't move. "Do you want to come?" she asked, hopefully.

Ron thought about this thrilling offer for almost a whole minute. "Might as well," he sighed, eventually. "It's dead in here."

She raised her eyebrows quizzically. "And you think the _library's_ going to be more exciting?"

He laughed out loud. _"_Probably not!"

_But you'll be there_.

---

* * *

---

They fell silent as they walked along the darkened corridors towards the library, Hermione in the same state of high expectation she always felt whenever they were alone together, especially in a dark corridor with no-one likely to interrupt them. She had convinced herself that if Ron was going to make a move, that was where he would do it. It made prefect rounds together even more tense than usual.

---

Ron, meanwhile, couldn't stop grinning. Hermione thought he'd handled that well. _Hermione_ thought he'd handled that well! It _was_ possible to be a prefect and not behave like an officious little twerp. You didn't _have_ to follow all the rules to the letter. You could be selective. Some of the rules were stupid and petty and you wouldn't be hurting anybody by simply turning a blind eye. Who cared if the kids were running in the corridors? Who cared if their ties weren't straight or their shirts weren't tucked in? In fact, considering the number of times he'd broken school rules over the years, it would be pretty hypocritical of him to reprimand other people for much less serious offences. Who would put up with a lecture about breaking school rules from someone who had once been nearly expelled for stealing a car and driving it into a tree? Ron certainly wouldn't.

---

It had been a slow and difficult process for him, coming to terms with being made a prefect and what it meant. What it _could _mean, too. He was never going to be one of those natural-born prefects like Hermione, so what was the point in trying to be? He could do it his way. Better the little brats got an earful and a threat of violence from him than a detention from Hermione. He had no intention of carrying out the threats, of course, but they didn't know that. There were some advantages to being this tall, it seemed. And occasionally, something happened that made him not hate being a prefect at all. Like putting the frighteners on some jumped-up little shit of a third year who'd been bullying one of the younger kids, or being able to threaten anyone he heard whistling _'Weasley Is Our King'_ with detention if he ever heard it again.

---

Not that he ever gave out detentions, of course. It was one of his own list of made-up rules that made the job slightly more bearable: "I might have to wear a stupid little badge but I won't do _this." _No detentions, and absolutely _never _any shopping anyone to the teachers. And he didn't care how unfair it was, there was no way he was going to dock House points from a fellow Gryffindor. He'd bet that none of the other prefects docked points from their own Houses. _Malfoy_ certainly didn't. It was just Hermione, caring too much about what was _fair_ as usual. _Life_ wasn't fair. Why should _this_ be any different?

---

Older kids breaking rules, of course, he just would pretend not to see. It wasn't worth the hassle, especially from the seventh years. They were quite likely to tell Fred and George, who would no doubt make his life _hell. _He remembered the stick Percy had got from them when he was a prefect -

---

_Percy_. A familiar fury rose within him at the thought of his estranged elder brother. Not only had he not bothered to turn up at Christmas - hadn't even sent a _card_ - but he hadn't gone to St Mungo's to see their dad when he was ill, either. As far as Ron was concerned, this was unforgivable. Their dad might have _died. _Percy not coming to see him in hospital was as good as saying he didn't care what happened to them anymore, that he no longer considered himself a member of their family. Well, _fine_. Ron didn't consider him to be a member of their family anymore, either. In fact, he'd be quite happy never to set eyes on his traitorous brother ever again.

---

He glanced at his watch automatically, wondering - as he did most nights - what his dad was doing now. Was he out doing something dangerous and potentially life-threatening for the Order, or safe at home, tucking into one of Molly's excellent chicken and ham pies in the cosy warmth of the Burrow's kitchen? Ron still got a shiver of fear down his spine every time he thought about that night, how close they'd come to losing him. He'd never been so terrified in his whole life as when he heard Phineas Nigellus tell Dumbledore_, "They're carrying him up now... He's covered in blood... It doesn't look good..." _

_---_

Yeah, compared to that, the previous challengers for the worst moment of his life - the Yule Ball, asking out Fleur Delacour, his first match as Keeper - all paled into insignificance. Probably because those things had only happened to _him_, whereas something happening to his _dad_… It was the sense of powerlessness; that was the worst thing. There was nothing he could do, nothing _any_ of them could do but sit and wait and hope and pray to every god you could think of that the news, when it came, was good. Every second of that dreadful night had seemed as long as the entire two hours of his nightmare first Quidditch match. Sitting there in the kitchen at Grimmauld Place waiting to hear if his dad was alive or dead, everything else suddenly seemed utterly unimportant. Who cared if he was crap at Quidditch? Who cared if he failed all his exams and had to retake a year? Who even cared if Hermione didn't like him the way he liked her? His dad might _die_.

---

Something like that changes a person. He'd sworn to himself that night that whatever happened, when he came back to school in the New Year he was going to put more effort into _everything._ He wasn't going to sit around feeling sorry for himself anymore. He was on the Quidditch team whether he liked it or not, he'd beaten several other worthy opponents to get that chance, and he was pissing it away. Just like he was pissing away the opportunity he'd been given to be a prefect. And if he didn't knuckle down and at least _try_ and pass his exams, he'd be wasting that chance too. At least if he tried his best and failed, there wasn't anything else he could have done. And most of all, he needed to stop wasting his time moping around after Hermione and accepting that she just didn't like him that way. He had enough _real_ things to worry about, things he had at least a degree of control over. Hermione not fancying him... well, there was nothing he could do about that, so what was the point getting all stressed about it?

---

Of course, it was all well and good swearing all those things in the midst of a life or death crisis, and not so easy to stick to them when he was back at school for the New Year. He might have changed, but nothing else had. The teachers were piling on more homework than ever, Hermione kept reminding him that their exams were only six months, five months, four months, three months away, and he hadn't even _started_ his revision. And then, as always, there was the special kind of hell that was Quidditch. Four days into January and he was back on the pitch in the cold and the dark and still failing to save goals, no matter how hard he tried. So gradually, slowly, remorselessly, his positivity and good intentions had been ground down and trodden out of him. They'd lost the first match of the new term, and the second. If he thought he couldn't play any worse than he had last year, he was very sadly wrong. Trying his best just wasn't good enough, it seemed.

---

And Hermione… well, that never got any easier. It was just impossible, when they spent almost all their time together. For the time being at least, he had the twin tortures of Quidditch and a seemingly endless mountain of homework to distract him, but she was always there, in the back of his mind. Not even in the back, most of the time. Nine times out of ten, if someone asked him what he was thinking about, the truthful answer would be "Hermione". Well, he might not be able to stop himself thinking about her - oh, pretty much constantly - but as long as he didn't act on it, things would be just fine. Yeah, all he had to do was _not_ say anything, _not_ do anything, _forever_. How hard could _that_ be?

---

Hermione glanced sideways at Ron, who hadn't said a word since they'd left the common room. He was frowning and looked preoccupied. She knew that look well.

"What are you thinking about?"

He hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Quidditch, what else?"

_Big surprise_, she thought, allowing herself a small smile at her appropriation of such a Ron phrase.

"You'll be fine," she told him, confidently, "Anyway, the next match is _weeks_ away. You'll have plenty of time to practice before then."

"I had plenty of time to practice before _last_ week's match as well," he pointed out. "Didn't make any difference though, did it? We still lost."

"It wasn't all your fault. Ginny said the new Beaters aren't very good."

"I know. Almost as bad as me, if you can imagine such a thing. It's just the girls who are any good. Ginny's _brilliant_," he added, with a sigh.

"You don't sound too pleased," she observed, shrewdly.

"No, I am. I am, it's great for her, it's just…"

He tailed off in frustration. It was just that his bloody family couldn't even let him play _one_ match on his own without someone else showing him up with how brilliant and talented they were. Fred and George had both been banned, so obviously Ginny had to join the team as well. Perfect, popular, talented, eighteen-months-younger-but-already-got-a-boyfriend Ginny, who Angelina had told him was "the most natural player we've got", like he was supposed to be _pleased_ for her or something. No mention of him, of course. If _he'd_ been banned from the team, no-one would have noticed or cared, but because it was Harry, Fred and George everyone was going around wringing their hands and wailing like the world had come to an end. Thank Merlin for Ginny, who'd come to save the day!

---

Christ, what a pathetic, whinging little idiot he was. Hermione must _never know _all the dark thoughts that lurked in his head. She'd run away screaming. He looked across at her and realised she was still waiting for him to finish his sentence, although now he'd completely lost track of what he was trying to say. A nervous laugh escaped his lips.

"I dunno, it's stupid, really. I don't know who I'm trying to impress!"

He shot her a meaningful sideways glance as he said this, answering his own question in his head. _You! _I'm trying to impress _you! _And you don't even _care!_

"I should hope you aren't trying to impress _anyone_," she scolded. "What kind of a reason is that to do something?"

"A stupid one," agreed Ron, dryly. "I was joking, obviously."

_Obviously._

"You should do it for _yourself_," she went on. "And if you _don't_ want to do it anymore, no-one would blame you. After all, our exams are in three -"

"_Hang_ on," challenged Ron, firing up, "What do you _mean_, if I don't want to do it anymore? You think I should give up?"

Hermione hesitated in the face of his indignation. "Well… I don't know. You don't seem to really enjoy it anymore."

"I've _never_ enjoyed it," said Ron, dryly. "It's been a total disaster from day one."

"Well, there you are, then! If you don't even _enjoy_ it… what's the point in carrying on?"

He gave a helpless shrug. "I dunno, really. I suppose… I suppose I'd just like to win _one_ match before they chuck me off the team. There isn't a chance in hell of us winning the Cup this year, not unless all the other teams' Seekers come down with the dragon pox, but if we could just win _one match_…"

"You won the first match," she pointed out.

"The _team_ won the first match," he corrected, dryly. "_I_ didn't have anything to do with it."

"Well, that's not true, is it? I seriously doubt they would have won with no Keeper."

"Yeah, they would. In fact, they'd probably have won _earlier_, 'cos Harry would have been under more pressure to catch the Snitch and finish the game. Me being there didn't make any difference at all. They could have had a _statue_ in goal. Hey, here's an idea," he joked, weakly, "Maybe _you_ should try out for the team. You couldn't be any worse than me."

She punched him lightly in the arm in admonishment. "_Hardly_. I can barely sit on a _broom_ without falling off, let alone fly and catch a ball at the same time."

"Nor can I, apparently," muttered Ron, but not quite loud enough for her to hear.

"It's not just that, though," she went on, "I don't like the height thing either. If I'm standing on solid ground, like a hill, or a tall building, I'm fine, but _brooms_… they just don't feel _safe_." She gave an involuntary shudder. "Remember when Harry and I had to ride the Hippogriff up to the top of the Astronomy Tower?"

"No," said Ron, with a grin. "I was unconscious in the hospital wing with a broken leg, remember?"

Hermione ignored him. "I honestly think it was one of the most terrifying things I've ever done in my life. Probably because I had no control over the situation." She shook her head adamantly. "I like to keep -"

"Maybe I could take you up on my broom sometime," Ron interrupted eagerly, talking over her. "You could see what the -"

"- my feet firmly on the ground, thank you very much!"

"- pitch looks like from the goal. I promise I wouldn't let you fall off! Ha ha!"

There was a short silence while they both digested what the other had just said.

_Oh,_ thought Ron, disappointedly. _That'll be a no, then._

Hermione, meanwhile, was in a slight state of shock. The thought of being on his broomstick with him, fifty feet up in the air and clinging on for dear life with her arms wrapped tightly around his waist, just as she had with Harry that time (or rather, _not at all _like that time with Harry), made her feel very flustered indeed.

"Er..."

"That's alright, you don't have to if you don't want to," he said hastily. "It was just an idea. Oh, look, we're at the library!"

He cursed himself silently. Why the _eff _had he said that out loud? _Obviously _she could see they were at the library, she wasn't _blind! _He pushed open the door for her to go in first and she ducked her head under his arm and hurried through, mumbling an embarrassed _"thanks". _

_---_

* * *

---

The library usually closed at nine, but fifth and seventh year prefects had special permission to use it until eleven for private study. As it was a Friday night, however, most people had better things to do. Not to mention that it was so cold in the castle at night that those people who _did_ have revision to do were sensibly choosing to do so by a roaring log fire in their respective common rooms. As Hermione had hoped, this meant that they were utterly alone and unlikely to be disturbed. If Ron had any _other _questions he wanted to ask her, this was the perfect opportunity.

---

Ron followed her to her favourite table in the corner by the window, sat down opposite her and watched her pull a seemingly endless stack of books from her bag. He pulled the sleeves of his jumper down over his hands and shivered. God, it was _freezing_ in here. Why on earth had he left the lovely toasty warmth of the common room to come and sit in a cold, dark, silent library? Oh yeah, he thought ironically, because _Hermione's _here. Why else did he do _anything? _

---

"Did you want any of these?" she asked, gesturing to the towering pile of books on the table beside her.

He shook his head. "I'm not doing any revision," he told her stubbornly. "It's my _birth_day."

"So, you're just going to sit there and watch me study?" she asked, incredulously.

Ron shrugged. That was about the size of it. In truth, he was quite happy to spend an hour watching Hermione read. It was just about one of his favourite things in the world. And unless it was going to be replaced by, say, watching Hermione _shower_, he was quite content with just that.

"Well, if you're going to be sitting there anyway, you might as well be _doing_ something."

She pushed a huge, heavy Astronomy textbook across the table towards him. Ron just looked at it.

"I'm not doing any sodding revision," he repeated. "I'd rather cut off my - _hand_," he finished hastily, although that had not been the word he had been going to use.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, and immediately opened a book and immersed herself in it.

Ron sat there for several minutes in silence, feeling increasingly foolish. Well, this is fun, he told himself. Ridiculous, to end up spending the evening of your sixteenth birthday in the _library_, just because it was what some _girl_ wanted to do. Well, next year he was going to celebrate it _properly_, and not in the bloody library either. It was a Saturday next year, anyway. He'd have the whole day to enjoy himself. And he'd be of age, officially an adult - _hah! _- and able to do adult things. He could leave school at 17 if he wanted - assuming he didn't fail all his exams and get kicked out before then, of course. He'd be able to use magic outside of school too. He'd be able to get served alcohol in the pub. He'd be able to - he felt all hot suddenly - _have sex!_ Although, he thought ironically, that one was kind of dependent on there being a girl somewhere out there who didn't find him completely repulsive.

_---_

He cleared his throat loudly to attract her attention, but she didn't look up. He shook his head in mild amusement at his own folly. Seamus had said he'd be fighting them off with a stick when he'd made the Quidditch team, but here he was, six months later, unable even to get the attention of the girl sitting _opposite_ him. Seamus didn't know what he was talking about. What was it he'd said earlier? Oh, yeah; _"all girls are like that". _Yeah, well, that was a load of rubbish too. Hermione wasn't. And Ginny better not be, either.

---

"So what were you and Ginny talking about?" he asked aloud.

She bit back a smile. "You, actually."

Ron looked as though he wasn't sure whether to believe her or not. "Oh. Okay. What were you saying?"

She shook her head. "Not really. I was joking. We were just talking about girl stuff."

Ron pulled a face. "You _never_ talk about girl stuff!"

"Not with _you,_" she pointed out, with a slight smile. "As you're not a girl."

"Me and Harry talk about _Quidditch_ in front of you!"

"Yes; _in front_ of me. Not _to_ me. Because I wouldn't have a clue what you were on about."

Ron surveyed her for a long time. "I didn't think you were interested in all that stuff," he said, sounding rather shocked.

"What stuff?" she teased, knowing it would embarrass him.

He flushed. "Well… you know… whatever it is girls talk about."

"What, like shoes and make-up, that kind of thing?" she suggested, mischievously.

"Fun-nee," he said dryly, and she laughed.

There was a short pause.

"So what sort of thing _do_ you talk about?" he persisted, trying to make the question sound light-hearted and not succeeding. "_Boys_, I suppose!"

Hermione took a while to answer. "Sometimes," she said, carefully. "But in case you haven't noticed, Ginny is the one with a boyfriend, not me."

Her heart was racing madly as she said this. How many hints did she have to drop?

Ron made a non-committal noise in his throat. "Well -" he began, then realised he didn't know what to say to that and stopped. It sounded like she was starting to wonder why she didn't have a boyfriend yet. He frowned. There'd been no mention of Krum since before Christmas, but that didn't mean they weren't still writing to each other as - _hah! _- penpals. He certainly wasn't going to ask her about it. Because it always seemed to end in a row when he did, but mainly because he didn't really want to know the answer. Unless, of course, the answer was that Krum had got himself a proper girlfriend, preferably of his own age and who lived in Bulgaria. He was an International Quidditch player, for God's sake; he must have his pick of women. He shouldn't need to poach other people's girlfr- girl friends_ - friends_ - he corrected himself quickly, feeling rather flustered.

---

Of course, even if Krum _was_ out of the picture, that still didn't mean there wasn't someone _else_ she liked. Or that that person might eventually realise it and ask her out. It had to be someone in the school, he thought, anxiously. Someone in their year or above. She liked older blokes, after all. Who, though? He made a mental list, immediately discounting himself, Harry, Fred and George, Neville, and Seamus. And definitely not Malfoy or any of the Slytherins, either. Maybe one of the Ravenclaws? Someone smart, like her. Someone she could talk to about _books_ and stuff. Someone -

---

He sighed, realising this was an utterly pointless exercise in guesswork. He'd just have to hope that if there _was_ someone she liked, he was too stupid to realise it. Or gay. Or in an ideal world, both. He shot her a sideways glance. How to ask if there was someone she was interested in without asking that exact question?

"You probably wouldn't want a boyfriend at the moment, though, would you?" he said, trying to keep the hope out of his voice.

_Please say no, please say no…_

She didn't respond, so he ploughed on desperately: "I mean, what with our exams coming up and everything. I expect you're too busy."

"Mm," said Hermione, in an odd voice, "Yes. I'm sure you're right."

"'Course I am!" said Ron, heartily. "I mean, our exams are only three months away, aren't they? You should be concentrating on your revision!"

Yeah, all he had to do was keep this up for the next twenty years, giving her a constant stream of reasons not to go out with anyone else, and eventually maybe she'd get desperate enough to say yes to him instead. Yeah, _great_ plan, Ron. That'll _definitely_ work.

"Mm," said Hermione again.

"Makes sense," muttered Ron. He suddenly had a moment of panic. "Why, has someone asked you out?"

For some confusing reason she actually laughed. "No, Ron," she told him, dryly, "No-one has asked me out."

"Good," said Ron, without thinking.

_"Good?" _she repeated.

"Well, no, not good. I just meant, okay then. Not _good_, obviously. Ha ha!"

No, not good. _Brilliant_, more like.

"Why are _you_ so bothered?" she demanded, heatedly. She sounded annoyed.

He shrugged. "I'm not."

"So why ask?"

"I'm just looking out for you, that's all." He needed to make it quite clear that he meant that in a normal, non-stalkerish way. "You know, like I would for Ginny."

"I think Ginny would question your assumption that she needs looking after. As would I, in fact."

"Yeah, I know, but she's my _sister_. It's just what you do, isn't it?"

Hermione was silent for a few moments. "_I'm_ not your sister," she said, quietly.

"Yeah, but you're my _friend_."

Hermione felt a jolt of excitement go through her, the way she always did when their conversation ventured onto dangerous ground. "Is that _all _I am?" she wanted to ask.

Ron seemed to feel he had still not explained himself properly. "Like when Harry was going out with Cho. You don't want to see your mates get messed around, do you? I mean," - he made a feeble attempt at a joke - "I'm sure if _I _got a girlfriend you'd probably just hate her on principle, wouldn't you? If she dumped me or something, I mean. Ha ha!"

_Was he saying "I mean" a lot?_

"Of course," he rambled on, not giving her a chance to speak, "I'd have to find one first!" He forced a laugh, and she managed a thin smile in return.

"Yes," she said, dryly, "That would obviously help."

Ron glanced at her sharply. Why did he get the distinct impression he'd just been insulted?

They fell into a tense silence for several minutes, then Hermione cleared her throat and asked, "Do you -"

She hesitated.

"Do I what?"

"Do you and Harry… you know, talk about, um…"

"What?"

"Girls."

Ron gave a great snort of laughter. "You're joking, aren't you? You have _met_ Harry, right? Anyway, blokes don't really talk about that stuff."

He thought of his conversation with Seamus earlier, which had been almost _entirely_ on the subject of girls. But he rather doubted that was what she meant. She meant; did they talk about _feelings_ and stuff. _No _was the answer to that, and he was frankly grateful. He was quite happy not to have to dodge any awkward questions on that particular subject, thank you very much.

"Mm," said Hermione, thoughtfully, "That's what Ginny said, too."

Ron frowned. He _really_ didn't like the idea of his sister and his - _friend_ - talking about that kind of thing together. "Right," he said, doubtfully.

They were silent for a few moments, then Hermione asked, echoing his earlier question, "So what were you talking to Seamus about?"

"Girl stuff," said Ron promptly, and then "Ow!" as she punched him lightly in the arm.

They both laughed, and for a moment he was half-tempted to tell her, "We were discussing whether Malfoy's mum would be grateful in bed", but decided that, on balance, she probably wouldn't appreciate the joke.

"So," she said, in a deliberately light tone of voice, "Is it true that all boys talk about is Quidditch, food and girls?"

"Oh, definitely," Ron joked, and they both laughed again.

"Although," he added, "You might have noticed that it's mostly just Quidditch la-la-lately..."

He stretched his arms over his head in an elaborate yawn, giving her another inadvertent flash of his stomach as he did so. Hermione glanced away quickly, her cheeks burning. "Stop _doing_ that!" she pleaded silently.

"Are you tired?" she asked aloud.

Ron shook his head. He didn't want to leave just yet.

"Maybe you should go to bed," she suggested.

"I'm fine."

"What time does your practice start tomorrow?"

"Ten. Just after breakfast."

"Maybe you should get an early night then. You're going to be exhausted tomorrow evening after an all-day practice, _and_ you've still got that Astronomy essay to finish for Tuesday morning."

Ron decided not to remind her that, actually, he hadn't even started it yet. "Well, that's what _Sunday's_ for," he told her, testily.

Hermione sighed. "Just once," she said, wearily, "Wouldn't you like to have a Sunday where you can go for a nice walk in the grounds or have a game of chess with Harry instead of spending it rushing to finish an essay that's due in the next day?"

Ron merely shrugged resignedly. He could feel one of her long, nagging speeches coming on, the ones that made him feel like he was eight years old again and being told off by his mother for treading mud through the living room.

"I mean, have you even _started_ your revision yet?"

_Here we go._

Another shrug. "I've been busy with Quidditch, haven't I?"

She shook her head. "Sometimes, Ronald, I really despair of you."

"What?" he protested, indignantly. "I _have!"_

"I thought you wanted to be an Auror."

"I do."

"Well, there's not much chance of that if you don't pass your exams, is there?"

"Yeah, alright," said Ron, annoyed. Like he wasn't quite aware of that fact already, thank you very much.

"Twelve weeks, Ronald. _Twelve weeks! _That's _nothing!_"

"It's ages away!"

She sighed, wearily. "Alright, think of it like this. How many subjects are you doing?"

Ron looked rather alarmed. "Nine."

"And would you be happy to sit an exam in any of them with only one week's revision?

"No, of course n-"

"Well, assuming you _do_ only spend one week on each subject, that's nine of the next twelve weeks already accounted for. And if you divide the other 21 days across your nine subjects, that's an extra two and a bit days per subject, so even if you started studying tomorrow, you'll only have nine and a bit days to study for each exam. And during those nine a bit days you'll also have lessons, meals, prefect duties, DA meetings, and Quidditch practice. Oh, and Quidditch _matches_. Still think twelve weeks is plenty of time?"

Ron paled. Suddenly those three slices of cake and all the biscuits he'd eaten felt like a lead weight in his stomach. "I feel sick," he mumbled.

"I'm not surprised," she said, briskly. "So now you can see why I started revising in _September_."

_"Fuck!"_

She raised her eyebrows at his language, but said nothing.

"This is the worst birthday _ever_," he grumbled.

"Oh, don't exaggerate," she scolded. "You had a _cake_, didn't you? What _more _do you want? There are children starving in the Sudan who'd be very grateful for that cake!"

"Send them a slice, then," muttered Ron.

"Oh, don't be facetious!" snapped Hermione.

Ron said nothing. He had no idea what 'facetious' meant, but he could tell from her tone that it wasn't meant to be a compliment.

"You're gonna be a nightmare to be around come June, aren't you?" he said, sourly.

"Yes," she said, simply. "And so are you. It's going to be very stressful for _everybody_."

"I don't know what you're so worried about; you'll breeze through them."

"You don't know that," she snapped back, "I can't afford to be complacent! And neither can you!"

Ron gave a mirthless snort of laughter. "Believe me, I'm not. If I pass anything at all, it'll be a miracle."

"It will if you're just going to sit there complaining instead of actually studying."

"It's my fucking _birth_day!"

"Well, I didn't ask you to come to the library with me, did I? Go back to the party if I'm boring you that much!"

"You're not boring me! Did I say you were boring me? Oh, _God!" _He threw his arms up in frustration. "Anyway, there's no point. The party's over. They all ate my cake and buggered off again."

"Well," said Hermione fairly, "People _have_ got exams to revise for, you know."

"Really?" said Ron, sarcastically. "Exams, you say? You know, I think that's the first I've heard of it. I wonder how many months away they are."

Hermione reddened. "What's up with you? You were in a really good mood earlier."

"I was in a nice, warm common room full of _cake_ earlier."

Hermione opened her mouth to retort, but instead simply shot him one of her finest glares and returned her gaze to her book. Ron watched her sullenly for a few moments, then gave up and slumped forward across the table, resting his head on his folded arms with a sigh.

---

Hermione stared unseeingly down at her book. She thought about her reaction to Seamus's announcement that Ron had something to ask her earlier. She'd jumped to the immediate and erroneous conclusion that what he wanted to ask her was… well, _out, _when actually it seemed nothing could have been further from his mind. It was his fault, she thought, angrily. What did he _expect_ her to think after buying her something like _perfume_ for Christmas? Maybe she should just bite the bullet and ask him what he meant by it. At least then she'd _know_, at least she wouldn't spend every day on tenterhooks, waiting for him to ask the question that never seemed to come. Maybe if _he_ wasn't going to ask it, she should just do it herself. Not _the_ question, she corrected herself quickly, no, not that, she would never _dare_ to ask _that_, but just what he thought he was playing at buying her perfume? Ginny had said it wasn't her idea, but that didn't mean his Mum or someone else hadn't suggested it. It did seem rather out of character for Ron, whose previous presents to her had all been either readable or edible. It wasn't as though she had asked for it, or even hinted that it was the sort of thing she would like. Quite the contrary, in fact, considering her reputation as the kind of serious-minded girl who was utterly uninterested in such girlish fripperies. Only her parents probably knew her well enough to know that sometimes, she would like to be thought of as a _girl_, and not just a walking library.

---

A powerful wave of emotion coursed through her. If that was the reason he'd bought it, if he really did know her that well... she was going to find it very hard not to just shove him against the nearest wall and snog the face off him. She allowed herself a small smile at this most un-Hermioneish of phrases. _He's rubbing off on you_, she thought, and then flushed as she realised the double meaning in her words. Feeling suddenly rather bold, she readied herself silently. She could do this. It was just one question, after all.

"So," she began, in a carefully light tone, "You were wrong, then."

Ron lifted his head off the desk, looking puzzled. "Eh?"

"You said the biscuits would last until at least tomorrow," she deadpanned, "And they've all gone already!"

Ron's frown dissolved into a grin. "Ah, no, _you _said they'd be gone by tomorrow. _I _said tomorrow at the _latest_. So, actually, I was _right._"

They both laughed, Hermione a little too loudly.

"But you liked them, though?"

"Oh, yeah," nodded Ron, eagerly. "The ones I had, anyway."

"You didn't get to try them all?" she exclaimed, disappointed.

He shook his head. "I wasn't quick enough."

"But I bought them for _you!"_

Ron looked rather anguished. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't think."

"Oh, no, I didn't mean - It's fine, they were _your_ present; it's up to you what you do with them, isn't it?"

She was getting in a muddle now, and she still wasn't any closer to asking him about the perfume.

"So you liked them - oh, I just asked that!"

Come _on,_ Hermione!

She tried again, her heart beating wildly in her chest. "Better than the homework planner I got you for Christmas, then?"

He laughed out loud. "Definitely!"

_Okay, Hermione, you can do it, it's just one little question._

"I was, um, rather surprised to open _your_ Christmas present."

Ron's smile became slightly more forced. "Uh-huh," he said, noncommittally. He'd been expecting - no, _dreading_ - this conversation for weeks. He thought he'd probably got away with it, since it was now over two months since Christmas, but he'd prepared an answer just in case. Change the subject, he told himself. Don't let her ask another question, don't let her wheedle the truth out of you in that annoying way only she can.

In the end, though, curiosity got the better of him. "Good surprised or bad surprised?"

"Oh, good surprised of course!"

They both laughed nervously, and Ron's stomach performed an odd little swoop. She liked it! She really liked it!

Hermione took a small deep breath to steady her nerves. "What made you, um, choose it?"

Ron looked down at his hands, stalling for time. Now that the subject had finally come up, the answer he had prepared - "My Mum chose it" - wasn't the answer he wanted to give. She liked it. He _had_ chosen it. Why shouldn't he get some of the credit? Merlin knows there were few enough occasions when he managed to do the right thing in relation to Hermione.

"Well -" he began, and then stopped, having no idea how to finish that sentence.

Hermione waited with baited breath, her heart in her throat, while Ron fiddled for what seemed like an eternity with a bit of loose wool on the hem of his jumper and deliberated over what to tell her:

My Mum chose it.

_I really like you._

My Mum chose it.

_I think you're amazing. _

My Mum chose it.

_I think about you all the time_.

My Mum chose it.

_I even have these dreams about you sometimes_ -

_No. _He wasn't going to say _any_ of it. He was _never_ going to say any of it.

He forced a weak laugh.

"I dunno, really. I just thought, you know, you probably had enough books."

"Oh," said Hermione. "Oh, I see."

It felt rather as though her stomach was falling through the floor. Two whole months she'd been waiting to know the answer to that question, and now she almost wished she had not asked. Maybe that really _is_ the reason, she thought, dully. He didn't mean anything by it at all. He doesn't want me to be his girlfriend. He just thought I had enough books.

---

But _wait a minute, _she thought, angrily, that doesn't explain it at _all! _It certainly doesn't explain why the _perfume! _There are a thousand things he could have bought me that weren't books, and not one of them would have driven me half-mad for the last eight weeks wondering about the intention behind them. Well, fine, if he was too pathetic to admit he had feelings for her. She had more important things to concern herself with than Ron Weasley. She wasn't going to waste her time analysing every word he said and the possible meaning behind every look anymore. For heaven's sake, their exams were only three -

---

She suddenly felt something moving in her hair and panicked, automatically jerking her head back away from it and swiping the thing away, before realising that the thing was Ron's hand.

"What are you _doing?" _

Ron snatched his hand back as though she were on fire, looking utterly mortified. For an elongated moment they just stared at each other in shock, and Ron's face grew redder and redder.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "You've got - you've got some crumbs in your hair. I was just - sorry."

He pulled the nearest book towards him and pretended to be instantly engrossed in it.

"No, it's okay," she said, thoroughly dismayed by her own reaction, "It's fine. Really, it… you just startled me, that's all."

"Sorry," said Ron again.

She watched him staring at the same spot on the page for almost a full minute. The tension was dreadful. It had felt like he was stroking her hair. She could almost still feel his fingers there, like static electricity crackling around her head. She desperately wanted him to reach his hand up again and touch her, because he never did, and even if he did accidentally, he apologised to her for about a week afterwards. She wanted to reach out _her_ hand, too, wanted to touch his hair, his face, his hand, which was gripping the edge of the book so tightly his knuckles had gone white.

She shook her hair experimentally and a few crumbs fell out onto the table.

"Have they all gone now?" she asked aloud.

He looked up reluctantly, still not quite able to meet her eyes. "What?"

"The crumbs. Have they all gone?"

She turned her head slowly one way and then the other so he would be forced to look at her.

"There's still a couple," he admitted. "Look, I'm really sorry I tipped crumbs over you. I'm an idiot."

"You're not an idiot," she said automatically. "Anyway, I threw a biscuit at you first, so I think that makes us even, don't you?"

Ron just nodded mutely and returned his gaze to the book in front of him, not having noticed it was Hermione's Ancient Runes textbook, a subject he wasn't actually studying.

Hermione watched him sadly. What would happen if one of them was actually brave enough to do something, not just this endless dance around each other? _Say_ something, _do_ something!

"You just startled me," she said again. "That was... you just..." She tailed off, not sure he was even listening.

---

Ron swore silently to himself. Stupid, _stupid!_ God, that was just mortifying. Her appalled "What are you _doing?"_ echoed around his brain. Yeah, Weasley, what _are_ you doing? Why didn't you just _tell_ her she had some crumbs in her hair? Or better still, don't chuck them over her in the first place! That's definitely the way to get the attention of the girl you fancy. How old are you, _five? _What are you going to do next, pull her hair? He rubbed his temples wearily. Some birthday this was turning out to be. A so-called birthday party that had lasted only as long as it took the "guests" to scoff the cake, and the rest of the night sitting in the library watching a girl revise. Woo-hoo.

He let out a heavy sigh, and Hermione surveyed him anxiously. "Honestly," she insisted, "It's really fine. I've forgotten about it already."

Ron shook his head. "It's not that."

"Well, what was that big sigh for, then?"

He shrugged, grumpily. "Well… it's my _birthday!" _he exclaimed, thoroughly aware that he sounded about six years old.

She stared at him levelly for a moment, and then closed her book with a snap.

"You're right. What would you like to do instead?"

Ron had a sudden mental image of her standing up and pulling her jumper over her head.

"Anything you want!" she said, brightly.

He opened his mouth and closed it again. He could think of lots of things that he would like to do, but none that he was stupid enough to say out loud. Not unless he wanted a slap around the face, anyway.

"Well, if you can't think of anything… I'm sorry, Ron, but Harry's right. Your options for celebrating are rather limited when you're at boarding school. Next year we'll do something really special, I promise."

"Yeah," said Ron, heavily, "Okay."

He looked so despondent that she spontaneously reached out and patted the back of his hand in sympathy. The thrill of the touch of skin on skin coursed through both of them, and their eyes met for the briefest of moments before Hermione looked away.

---

Ron stared at her in shock. His hand was still tingling from her touch, and when he looked at it, he half-expected to see some sort of mark burned into the skin. Had she felt that too? For a moment there he'd thought… but no, it was ridiculous, he must have imagined it.

---

Hermione's head was already buried in her book again as though nothing had happened. "Because nothing _did_ happen, you muppet," he told himself scornfully. It was a sympathetic, friendly pat on the hand, nothing more. She might as well have added "There, there." Yeah, he had definitely imagined it. He'd probably had too much Butterbeer and biscuits, that was all. It was a sugar rush. A cake high. Actually, now he came to think of it, he _did_ feel like he was getting a headache.

---

Of course, it was his own fault; sitting here all evening with nothing to distract him. It was the silence that did it. He didn't like silence. It gave him too much time to think. Left alone with his own thoughts for long enough he could talk himself into - or out of - pretty much anything. He thought of Sirius, locked up in solitary confinement for twelve years in Azkaban. Ron wouldn't have lasted a week. On the fourth day, the guards would have found him gibbering in the corner and trying to fashion a makeshift noose from his own socks. Jesus, he could barely manage an hour in a slightly chilly _library_ before starting to hallucinate things that hadn't really happened!

---

Yeah, he was definitely delusional. Her horrified reaction when he'd tried to get the crumbs out of her hair was proof of that. Jesus, he could hardly have received a worse reaction if she'd screamed "Don't touch me!" and shoved him away, just like she had earlier when he'd emptied them over her head in the first place. He let out an inward groan at the memory. But if only she would look up so he could see her expression, know for _certain_ he was wrong about this.

---

_"__Look up," _he pleaded silently, half-hoping that he could make her look at him through sheer force of will. But the seconds ticked away and Hermione's head remained firmly bent over her book, despite him staring at her so intensely she must be able to feel his gaze boring through her skull. Minutes passed, and slowly, inevitably, doubt began to creep in and hope to fade. She wasn't going to look up because _she _wasn't sitting here imagining she'd felt a non-existent spark between them. He was just reading too much into it because he _wanted_ it to be true. _Ha_. He should know by now that things didn't happen just because you _wanted _them to. Just because he wanted to be an Auror, didn't mean it was going to happen. Just because he dreamed of being some great Quidditch star, didn't mean that was going to happen either. And just because _he'd_ felt something when she touched him, didn't mean _she_ had too, did it?

_Did_ it?

---

* * *

_Endnote__:_

_Well, I hope it was worth the wait! Please leave me a review if you can as I always love to hear your thoughts, especially as this was such a nightmare of a chapter to write. Coming soon; my new favourite chapter, hurrah! _

_Hope you all have a wonderful Christmas and that you get your very own Ron Weasley in your stocking this year!  
_

_Pinky Brown x_

_

* * *

  
_


	16. Chapter 16: Scars

**_Author's Note:_**

Exciting news: Two of my stories have been nominated in 4 categories at the 2009 Ron/Hermione Awards on Livejournal!

_Magic Knickers _has been shortlisted for "Best One-Shot" and "Best AU Fic"

_Biscuits: A Love Story _has been shortlisted for "Best Multi-Chapter Fic" and "Best Depiction of Ron"

Regular readers will understand why that last one gives me an especially warm glow inside.

Huge thanks to everyone who nominated me, and if you'd like to go and vote for me, I would of course be delighted! Ffnet doesn't let me post links here (grr!), but you can follow the link from my Profile page, or, if you're not a member of Livejournal, you can vote for me by sending an email listing your choices to:

rhr dot awards at gmail dot com

Easy!

Voting closes on March 21st 2010.

Thank you! You do know you all ROCK, right?

Pinky Brown, 3rd March 2010

* * *

_This chapter is dedicated to long-term reader AllanFrontRow, who always leaves the most amazing, perceptive reviews - so much so that I often wonder if he's standing over my shoulder when I'm writing the story. To him and to all of my readers who take the time to leave a review; thank you, it really means a lot. _

---

**Chapter Sixteen: Scars**

---

She opened her eyes and for one terrifying moment she did not know where she was, her vision filled by an unfamiliar faded wallpaper covered with tiny blue flowers. Panicking, she turned over away from the wall and froze at the sight of a red-haired someone lying quite still in the bed across the room from hers.

"Ron -" she croaked, and stretched out a hand towards him, before waking up fully and realising that Ron's hair was not that long, that the hospital wing did not have floral wallpaper, and that she was quite safe in Ginny's bedroom at the Burrow. Ginny was only sleeping, Ron was upstairs in his own room, Harry was safe - if not exactly in the loving arms of his family - at the Dursleys', and everyone was okay.

Well, not quite everyone. They didn't _all_ make it.

---

She rolled onto her back and threw the sheets off her body, feeling clammy and hot. It's sleeping in an unfamiliar bed, she told herself. You've been fine for the last two weeks. No nightmares, no trouble sleeping, no obvious side-effects or other long-term damage. Why now? Maybe it was just being back in the magical world again. Maybe it was delayed shock. Or maybe she simply had too many blankets on the bed.

---

She had known, deep down, that something was wrong, that Harry's dream or premonition or whatever it was made no sense. What was Sirius doing at the Ministry in the first place, when he never left the confines of Grimmauld Place? And how could he be being tortured in broad daylight in the middle of the day when the Ministry was full of workers? It couldn't be real. It had to be a trick. But then logic had never been any use against Harry, especially when someone he cared about might be in danger. He had been so insistent and forceful there was just no arguing with him, although God knows she had tried. But then Ron had backed him up, reminded her that Harry's mental connection to Voldemort had saved his father's life at Christmas, and how could she argue with that? If she had been there that night she might have convinced them it was only a dream, Arthur would have bled to death and Ron… Ron would never have forgiven her. So she had reluctantly gone along with Harry's plan to save his godfather, and now Sirius was dead and Harry was devastated, and she wished more than ever that she had gone with her first instincts that night. Maybe Sirius would still be alive, maybe Ron's arms wouldn't be covered with those awful livid scars, and Harry wouldn't have lost the only father he had ever known.

---

She had not understood - still did not understand - what had happened to Sirius. How could he have just fallen through a curtain and died? It wasn't possible. And where was the body? How could there not be a body? Where had the curtain lead to? Nowhere? But that made no _sense! _She had questioned Harry repeatedly, sure he must be missing some vital fact which would suddenly make everything fall into place, but had only succeeding in making him angry with her. Ron had shot her a warning look over Harry's shoulder and after that she had stopped asking, but she still felt as though the story was incomplete somehow. She hadn't seen Sirius die - only Harry and Remus and his murderer had - and it was hard to comprehend the facts as she had been given them. Ron, conversely, had asked almost no questions at all, just sat and listened to Harry's story and seemed to accept it as fact. She supposed that when you had grown up in the wizarding world, accepting unbelievable things as fact was normal. They had all reacted in different ways to the events at the Ministry. Ron had retreated into silence, Harry had alternated between rage and grief, and she had just wanted someone _- anyone_ - to answer her questions. Three weeks after the event she still wanted answers, but was gradually coming to accept that they might not be forthcoming. Or even that in this case, there might not be any.

---

She was beginning to learn the limits of magic. No-one had been able to say for certain whether Ron's scars would ever truly fade, or name the curse that she herself had been hit with. It was inconceivable to her that there should be spells and curses so dark that no-one knew the counter-spells or potions that might heal them. She'd always taken it for granted that people like Dumbledore and McGonagall knew all the answers, knew everything there _was_ to know about the wizarding world, but it turned out that even _they_ didn't know the far limits of dark magic. Their response to Hermione's curse had been to throw every potion under the sun at her, and then send her home and tell her that if she felt unusual in any way, to go to St Mungo's at once. She did not have much faith in St Mungo's. If no-one at _Hogwarts_ could tell her what had happened to her, she seriously doubted that anyone _there_ would be able to help.

---

She was keeping her fears to herself, but the truth was; she was scared. Her experience of magic so far had been mostly in a controlled classroom environment. She had never been in a situation where she had genuinely felt her life to be in danger, face-to face with someone who could and would kill her in a heartbeat, without any fear of the consequences. They had all, every single one of them, been hit by some sort of curse or hex that night, and any one of those hexes could have been the killing curse. Ginny's broken ankle and Neville's broken nose had been mended in a trice, but it could easily have been so different. She was all too aware that when it had come to an actual physical battle, with wands, top marks in class and the ability to construct a really well-thought out argument had been utterly useless to her. Their DA training must have helped, of course, but if the Death Eaters had wanted to kill them - or more likely, if they had been ordered to - she would not be here now. None of them would.

---

She was in a different world now. Sirius was dead, Voldemort was back, they were officially at war, and in the next year they would all become of age, Hermione herself in only two months. If things carried on like this, there would almost certainly be many more battles like that at the Ministry. Next time they might not be so lucky. For someone as risk-averse as Hermione, who did not even take part in competitive sports, the fact that she was choosing a path which led to real danger and possibly even death struck her as ironic, to say the least. She could leave Hogwarts and move back home, where she'd be safe. Of course, her education and any hope of a decent career would be ruined, but she would at least be _safe. _

---

But then, it wasn't really a choice, was it? The future might be uncertain, but it was the only future she had. The only future she _wanted_. She could be safe, but that would mean leaving Hogwarts, leaving her friends - the only real friends she'd ever had - and yes, leaving Ron too. It was no kind of a choice at all. They weren't just part of her life; they _were _her life. They were more important to her than even her education, although she would never admit that to Ron. He would tease her mercilessly. Besides, then she'd have to admit how important he was to her in other ways too, and that was a path somehow even more terrifying than the one that led to war and violence and death.

---

Besides, "home" didn't feel like home anymore. She had expected to feel relief on arriving home for the holidays, after such a difficult and traumatic term, but instead she only felt anxious and isolated. She had been looking forward to the end of their exams, to be able to read for pleasure instead of for purpose again, but now it was all over she found that even books held little appeal. She would pick one up, find herself reading the same paragraph over and over without anything sinking in, and then toss it aside with a sigh. She felt constantly on edge, as though waiting for important news, and couldn't relax or concentrate her mind to anything for more than a few minutes. Being apart from Ron felt wrong. She missed him. She missed Harry too, of course, but when she thought about him she didn't get that same stabbed-in-the-heart feeling she got when she thought about Ron.

---

On the first day at home, with both her parents out at work, she had stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror and really looked at herself for the first time since it had happened. For the first time in years, in fact. The spell that had hit her, dead in the centre of her chest between her breasts, had left no marks or scars upon her skin, but she still imagined she could feel it trapped within her, like mild heartburn or a stitch.

---

She had surveyed her body in the mirror feeling oddly detached from it. It was the body of a grown woman now - the curves of breasts and hips and belly - but the face that looked back at her still bore traces of the childhood she had only recently left behind. She felt strangely sad, as though part of her life was ending. When she had left her parents' house last night she had the peculiar feeling she was leaving home for good. It was silly - she would be seeing them at Christmas, and after that there was one more summer holiday before she left school - but she also knew that this was merely the inevitable end of a process that had begun when they had waved her off on the platform at King's Cross five years ago.

---

She had begun lying to her parents in first year, when she'd conveniently forgotten to mention the troll that had nearly killed her, the three-headed dog kept in a school cellar, the near-fatal chess match that had nearly killed one of her best friends, or the dark wizard that wanted to see her other best friend dead. Since then lying had become a matter of course for her. She was a person who considered truth almost more important than anything else, and yet she'd been lying to her parents for five years with barely a stab of guilt. She had not felt the need to inform them of Cedric's death last year, and she certainly had no intention of telling them about either what had happened to Sirius, or the injuries she had sustained at the Ministry. Fortunately her scars were mental rather than physical, so no difficult questions had been asked.

---

She had been doing a lot of thinking over the past two weeks, alone in the house that no longer felt like home. She thought about her parents, and how they might react if she ever told them the truth. She thought of the events at the Ministry, and how close she had come to being seriously injured. How close they had _all_ come. She thought of poor Harry, shut up at the Dursleys' when he ought to be with people who really cared about him. But mostly, she thought about Ron. She might have lost him that night. Something like that happening made you realise a few things. And what she had realised was that one, now was the worst possible time to start any kind of relationship, with Harry needing their support more than ever. And two: that despite the many, many reasons it was a terrible idea, despite all the things he said and did that drove her up the wall, despite all the arguments and all the ways they were so different from each other, despite the fact that he seemed unlikely to _ever _make a move, she was in love with Ron Weasley. Of course she was. It wasn't so much a lightning bolt as calm acceptance of what, deep down, she had always known. Yes, of course. She loved him. She'd always loved him. It was an unassailable fact, as sure as his eyes were blue.

---

Of course, realising it didn't change anything. She wasn't going to tell him, or actually _do_ anything about it. Everything was so much more complicated now. Sirius's death and all the repercussions of that. She needed to be there for Harry, not distracted by Ron. They _both_ needed to be there for him. It wouldn't be fair if anything happened between them because he'd feel like the odd one out, and he had enough to deal with without that too. She was just going to have to try to enjoy the summer and deal with Harry whenever he arrived and whatever state he was in, and try not to think about the Ron situation too much. Try to enjoy just being friends with him, just as they were before _feelings_ got in the way and complicated everything. It was ironic, though; she'd finally accepted that what she felt was not just a passing crush, not just her hormones controlling her emotions. And now Sirius was dead and Harry was in pieces and Ron seemed distant and subdued, and having waited so long, it still - more than ever - wasn't the right time. Would it ever be?

---

She lay there for another few minutes listening to the birds tweeting a dawn chorus outside her window. It was too early to get up yet. Maybe if she opened the window and let some air into the room, she'd be able to get back to sleep. Kneeling on the bed, she pushed the curtain aside a few inches, reached for the latch, and then froze. There, standing stock still in the middle of the garden, clad in t-shirt, checked pyjama bottoms and bare feet in the wet grass, was Ron. He was holding something she could not see - his wand? - up in front of his chest, and staring fixedly into the trees. Her heart gave a sick lurch. Had he seen something? Heard someone? Death Eaters, coming back to finish the job? But a moment later he turned slightly and she saw that the thing he held in his hand was only a mug of tea. She breathed a silent sigh of relief, then frowned, and checked the alarm clock on her bedside table. Twenty past six! What was he doing up so early? Last year in the summer holidays it had been almost impossible to rouse him before about midday!

---

She turned back to the window and continued to watch him, fascinated. It wasn't as though he was doing anything particularly interesting - scratching his arm, yawning, stretching his toes luxuriously in the wet grass, just standing there drinking a cup of tea - but somehow she could not bring herself to look away. As she watched, he went to take a bite of what looked like a slice of his mother's homemade fruit cake, fumbled and dropped it - probably not quite awake yet - automatically bent down to pick it up, forgot he was holding a cup of hot tea in his other hand, and promptly spilt half a cup of scalding liquid all over his feet.

---

Upstairs watching, Hermione laughed out loud, then clamped a hand to her mouth and swivelled around quickly to check she hadn't woken Ginny. But Ginny did not stir and after a few moments Hermione breathed a sigh of relief and turned back to the window, still smiling. But her smile faded as she saw he was now pressing the bottom of the hot cup against his forearm.

"Don't _do_ that," she begged silently.

She started to count automatically in her head. Ten seconds, seventeen, twenty… It was almost a full, agonising minute before he took the cup away, rubbed his arm, and then turned towards the house. Hermione dropped the curtain hurriedly, her heart in her mouth. Had he seen her? Oh, _God! _By the time she dared take another peek through the curtains, he had gone. She lay back down with a sigh and listened for the sound of his footsteps on the stairs until eventually sleep overtook her once more.

---

When she next awoke it was gone eleven and she leapt out of bed with a guilty start. The covers on Ginny's bed were thrown back and her bed looked long cold. Oversleeping on her first day at the Weasleys' house! What would Ron's mum think? She hoped they weren't waiting for her so they could start breakfast. Ron would _not _be happy if they were. She dressed quickly, ran a brush through her hair, and hurried downstairs. The kitchen, however, was silent and empty, and the table was neither laid for breakfast nor piled high with the dirty plates that would suggest they had already finished breakfast. She hovered uncertainly in the doorway and was just trying to decide what to do when Molly bustled in, wearing a floral housecoat and carrying a mop and a bucket of hot, soapy water. She looked rather harassed.

"Oh, hello, Hermione dear," she said, distractedly, "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Weasley. I - I'm really sorry I overslept."

"Don't be silly, dear, you're our guest. Besides," she added, kindly, "I'm sure you must have needed it to have slept so long."

"Is there anything I can do to help?"

Molly glanced at her watch. "You couldn't take a cup of tea up to Ronald, could you? We probably won't see him 'til dinner otherwise. Honestly, that boy can sleep for England!"

"He's still in _bed?" _Hermione exclaimed, surprised. "But -"

She stopped herself just in time. Fortunately Molly was already busy refilling the kettle and didn't notice anything amiss.

"Oh, you know him, dear," she chortled, "He never gets up before midday in the holidays."

"Mm," said Hermione, remembering Ron standing in the garden at dawn, staring into the trees. Or had she merely dreamt it?

---

She carried the cup carefully up the stairs to Ron's room on the top floor, knocked once, received no answer, knocked again, and then just stood there on the landing, not quite sure what to do.

"Ron!" she whispered, loudly.

No answer.

A little louder. _"Ron!" _

Still no answer.

She took a deep breath, turned the handle, and went in. It took a few moments for her eyes to become adjusted to the darkness. Ron's room was like a bear's cave, small and dark and strewn with litter. It _smelt_ rather like a bear's cave too; a musty combination of stale air, sweat, and something distinctly medical that she couldn't quite place. As objects began to take shape in the darkness, her gaze fell on the bear himself, lying sprawled on his stomach on the bed. People were supposed to look peaceful when they were asleep, but Ron didn't. He looked as though he'd gone three rounds with the duvet. One leg was sticking out from under the quilt, several inches of calf and one large foot protruding from the leg of his too-short pyjama bottoms. One arm was dangling over the edge of the bed completely, his fingertips just grazing the carpet. His t-shirt had become twisted around his torso, exposing several inches of back. She watched him in a kind of reverie, her reason for being there all but forgotten.

---

Suddenly he jerked awake, as though sensing her presence in the room, and let out a yell on seeing the dark figure standing at the end of his bed. Equally startled, Hermione let out a small scream and the cup of tea in her hand crashed to the floor, hot liquid splashing everywhere. Ron jumped half out of bed and attempted to pull the quilt in front of his body, with not much success.

"What the buggering _fuck_ are you doing in my room?"

"I -"

"What are you doing in my room?" he repeated.

"I'm sorry -"

"Why didn't you knock?"

"I _did_ knock -"

"Well, obviously not _loud_ enough! What are you doing in my room?"

"I brought you a cup of tea. Your mum said -"

"Jesus _Christ! _Why can't you people just _LEAVE ME ALONE!"_

He was out of bed properly now, pushing her firmly towards the door. Hermione was in too much of a state of shock to resist.

"Get out!"

"Ron -"

_"Get out!"_

"But -"

It was no use, the tears were coming now, and she sobbed a last _"I'm sorry!"_ and fled from the room.

Ron slammed the door shut after and let out a strangled yell of frustration.

"_Fuck!" _he shouted, "Fucking fucking _fuck!"_

He took several deep breaths to calm himself down and then sat down on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. What the hell had just happened? What the fuck was she doing in his room? He wouldn't have just walked into _her_ room! Why couldn't she bloody well _knock? _He might have been doing _anything!_ He might have been _naked_, for fuck's sake! Couldn't he even get any privacy in his own bloody bedroom anymore?

"_I was asleep!"_ he protested to himself, "She shouldn't have - I was _asleep!_ She took me by surprise, that's all. She just -"

He tailed off, his anger ebbing away rapidly. Now that the shock was wearing off and he was fully awake, he was starting to realise that he might, just possibly, have over-reacted a wee bit. That he'd just yelled at the girl he -

He punched the bed beside him in frustration. Well, this was just a brilliant start to the day, wasn't it? He checked the clock on his bedside table. Nearly half past eleven. Might as well get up then. Start the usual process, he thought grimly.

---

The usual process was a thick, nasty-smelling cream applied to his arms twice a day, or whenever they became so itchy he wanted to tear them clean off at the elbows, which was about twenty times a day at the moment. His chest had healed quickly because those tentacle things hadn't touched the skin directly, but his forearms were criss-crossed with a mass of ugly bright white scars. Madam Pomfrey had told him that they would "probably" fade eventually, but she hadn't been able to give him any idea of how long that might take. It seemed that there was no precedent for what had happened to him, so they were basically making it up as they went along. It was not exactly reassuring. Neither was that "probably".

---

He ran a weary hand through his hair and glared at the offending tub of Dr. Ubbly's Oblivious Unction sitting on his bedside table. He hated the smell of it, hated the feeling of being dirty all the time, of his fingers being continually greasy with the cream, the way it got under his fingernails and he rubbed his eyes and they stung like hell, the way everything he ate tasted of it and everything he touched smelled like it, the way it rubbed off on his clothes and bed sheets, and the way his entire _day_ revolved around it. Madam Pomfrey had given him a month's supply, but he had no intention of renewing the prescription. Six more days and he was chucking the whole damn tub in the bin, itch or no itch. He scratched his arm automatically. Thinking about itching was like thinking about yawning; it was impossible to do without immediately feeling the need to scratch.

---

The worst thing was that the soothing effects of the cream wore off after about five hours, hence the waking up at six - a time he previously hadn't been aware even _existed_ - feeling like small insects were eating him alive. Cold showers helped, and so did staying out of the sun. Repeatedly scratching the itch did _not_ help, and nor did doing any kind of exercise, such as Quidditch, because the sweat only aggravated the itch, the cream got washed off, and he'd have to start the whole process all over again. Not that he was really in the mood for Quidditch anyway. Or anything much. All he wanted to do was stay in his bedroom with the curtains drawn against the daylight and not talk to anyone. He'd managed this pretty successfully for the last two weeks, and because there was only Ginny and his Mum here during the day, they'd let him get away with it in a way the twins certainly wouldn't have. He had been dimly aware that once his friends arrived he'd probably have to either explain or stop, but for now, he'd fallen easily into the routine and there was no-one to tell him not to.

---

But now Hermione was here, and of course, she wouldn't let him get away with _anything_. She always wanted to _talk_ about things, she couldn't just leave you alone to mope in peace. Last summer at Grimmauld Place he had been desperate to see her again, this year for some reason he couldn't quite fathom he had been rather wishing she wouldn't come. Not yet anyway. He didn't feel ready. He didn't want to have to have the conversation he knew she'd want to have.

---

He sighed, and scratched his arm distractedly. Last summer felt like a very long time ago. He hadn't been home in a whole year and it felt weird to be here again. Like it was someone else's house. Percy was gone, and now the twins were too, and the house was so bloody _quiet_. It had never been quiet, not for as long as he could remember. It was weird being here with just his Mum and Ginny. The last time it had been just the three of them in the house during the day was before he left for Hogwarts. Still, at least then he'd actually got to see his Dad, who always made a point of being home for dinner, no matter what was going on at work. These days he turned up very late at night if Ron saw him at all, looking absolutely exhausted.

---

The worry was etched on his mother's face too. Ron and Ginny's encounter with Death Eaters at the Ministry had merely been the latest of a long list of worries for Molly. Percy leaving. Their dad's near-death experience at Christmas and continuing involvement in the Order. The twins deciding not to take their exams, leaving home and moving into their own flat above the shop, right in the thick of things in Diagon Alley, where shops were being ransacked and people dragged off by Death Eaters on an almost weekly basis. And as if all _that_ wasn't enough to be going along with, Bill was back in the country and working for the Order, right on the front line if anything serious happened. Mum was torn between delight at finally having her beloved firstborn son back after several long years abroad, and the grim realisation that at least he'd been safe in Egypt. Ironically enough it seemed that Charlie - who worked with fire-breathing dragons for a living - was probably the safest out of all of them.

---

Ron himself was delighted his eldest brother was back. He hadn't seen much of him since last summer, but lately he had taken to popping 'round to the Burrow several times a week, for a cup of tea and a game of chess and to let their Mum see he was okay. It was nice to have a bit of male company for a change, especially as Bill's new fiancée was coming to stay with them soon, meaning that Ron would be outnumbered by women by four to one. Mum had been cleaning like a madwoman ever since she'd found out, determined not to show up the family in front of her future daughter-in-law. One more thing for her to worry about; her son getting married in the middle of a war, and to some young foreign girl he hardly knew (well, according to Molly, anyway). Mum and Ginny had both made it quite clear they didn't think much of Fleur, and Ron wasn't exactly thrilled by the prospect either. Having the girl once responsible for one of the most humiliating moments of his life come to live with them, knowing how much of a blushing idiot he turned into around her, was not going to be fun. Especially with Hermione around to witness every dumb-arse thing he said and did.

---

He let out a heavy sigh. _Hermione... _Well, he'd well and truly messed that up, hadn't he? He couldn't quite believe that the first words he'd said to her after two weeks apart were "get the fuck out of my room". He gave a mirthless snort of laughter. Brilliant. Once the idea of Hermione appearing unexpectedly in his bedroom had been the stuff that dreams were made of, but _now... _

---

His stomach gave a low rumble and he glanced at the alarm clock. Twenty to twelve. Just about time for breakfast, then, he thought, ironically. Although he really needed a shower. He sat there for another few minutes, weighing up whether being itchy or hungry was more unbearable, before finally settling on the option that required the least effort.

---

Ginny was in the kitchen when he arrived downstairs, laying the table for breakfast. She did not look up when he entered or acknowledge his presence in any way.

"Where's Hermione?" Ron demanded.

Ginny's laying of the table became more aggressive, and she threw one fork down with such force that it bounced off the table and flew across the room, narrowly missing stabbing Ron in the thigh.

"Careful!" he warned.

Ginny ignored him. "Had a nice long sleep, did you?"

He just shrugged. Not really, but there was no point telling _her_ that. "Gonna answer the question?"

"Gone to get the eggs in," said Ginny angrily. "Something else _you_ could have done if you hadn't been lying about in bed all morning. Here -" She thrust the cutlery at him. "Why don't _you_ finish this?"

"Mum asked _you_ to do it, didn't she?"

"Only because you were still in bed! Listen, I've been up for two hours and she's already had me sweeping the floor and bringing in the washing. The least you can do is lay the table."

"No, the _least_ I can do is absolutely nothing."

"Oh, why don't you just -"

A sudden blood-curdling scream from the garden silenced them both. They stared at each other in frozen terror for a suspended moment, then both started running at once. Ginny was nearest the back door so she reached the garden first, but Ron overtook her quickly.

---

He was running, his bare feet pounding on the grass, his heart hammering in his throat, and suddenly the trees and bushes melted away and all he could see in his mind was the corridors of the Ministry rushing past him. He looked around once and saw the others just behind him, heard someone shout something he didn't quite catch. Almost immediately a door opened up in front of him and his momentum was such that he couldn't stop, just fell through it, Ginny and Luna felt on top of him, knocking him to the ground, his wand clattered out of his hand and rolled across the floor, and then -

And then -

And then they were all gone and he was standing in front of Hermione, watching her being hit in the chest by a flash of blue light, her eyes widening in shock, her mouth open in a silent scream, and all he could do was watch it happen, couldn't move, couldn't shout out, couldn't do anything to stop it. And then her body falling slowly backwards and everything fading to black.

He would not let it happen again, he'd - _shit,_ he'd left his wand on his bedside table! _Shit! _You stupid -

He pulled up short at the sight of Hermione, standing in the middle of the hen coop amidst the decapitated heads and mangled remains of several chickens.

"I trod on a head!" she wailed.

Ron was so breathless he couldn't even speak, just bent double and rested his hands on his knees and tried to get his raggedy breathing back to normal. A few moments later Ginny ran full pelt into the back of him and nearly knocked him flying.

"What happened?" she shouted. "We heard a scream!" She caught sight of the scene of carnage at Hermione's feet. "Oh."

"_I trod on a head!"_ Hermione repeated, her eyes wide in horror.

"A fox must have got in," shrugged Ginny, then her expression softened at Hermione's stricken face. "Are you alright?"

"I'm f-fine. I'm just... a bit in shock, I think."

A wave of euphoria surged through Ron, still trying to get his breath back beside them. Jesus, he'd thought it was Death Eaters, he'd been certain she was lying dead and blank-eyed in the middle of the garden, and instead... Chickens. _Chickens!_ He couldn't help it, he started laughing out of sheer giddy relief, and once he started he couldn't stop.

The two girls' heads swivelled together to glare at him.

"It's not funny," said Ginny, angrily.

Ron shook his head, still laughing too much to speak. Still on edge, Hermione suddenly snapped and shoved him so hard in the chest he staggered backwards and almost lost his balance.

"_It's not funny!"_ she screamed, tears of humiliation now streaming down her cheeks. She ran off towards the house in floods of tears and Ron watched her go, his laughter ceasing as suddenly as it had begun.

Ginny shot him a filthy look. "You're a complete idiot, you know that?" she told him disgustedly, and then hurried off after Hermione.

Ron gave a short, rather shaky laugh. He'd managed to upset her twice already today and it wasn't even afternoon yet. Sighing heavily, he picked up the upturned wicker basket and began to collect the eggs for breakfast, taking his time about it so he could delay having to go back inside and face what was certain to be the wrath of three angry women. He felt rather jittery, as though he really had just witnessed the events at the Ministry all over again.

---

Of course, the reality was that everything he knew about what had happened to her that night (and, unfortunately, what had happened to _him_) had come from other people. Neville and Harry had been the only witnesses to Hermione, and it was hardly fair to make Harry relive the whole dreadful experience, so he had begged for all the details from Neville. A flash of blue light, Neville had said, and he could picture it in his head, as clear as day. He replayed the moment the curse had hit Hermione over and over until he half-believed he had actually seen it happen. It felt more terrifying, more real than his own experience, which was a jumbled mess of actual memories, imagined memories and a big black hole of nothingness.

---

Ginny and Luna had been able to fill in some of the gaps for him, although by the time they had finished, he rather wished he had not asked. Ginny had been unusually evasive, but Luna, in her usual matter-of-fact way, had been quite happy to tell him.

"Well... I suppose you were giggling a lot."

"_Giggling?" _

"Yes, and you kept falling over. You were sort of rambling..."

"Rambling?"

"Talking a lot. You kept making silly jokes."

"Jokes!"

Brilliant. So while Hermione was being attacked by Death Eaters and Sirius was being murdered he was falling over, giggling, and making _jokes._

"Yes, it was really hard to get you to come along, actually; you kept trying to wander off and we had to run after you and pull you back again. It was a bit like you were drunk."

"_Drunk?"_

So not only had he not been there to help Harry and Hermione when they really needed him, but he'd put his sister and Luna in danger too. The thought of it made his cheeks sting with humiliation. All he'd done was hold them back and put them in even more danger. They would have been better off without him.

---

The most frightening thing was that big black hole in his memory. Losing several hours of your life and having to rely on other people to tell you what had happened. All he knew for certain was that one minute he was running for his life down a Ministry corridor, and the next; waking up in the hospital wing with his arms and ribcage tightly bandaged, confused as hell, and with a white-faced Ginny sitting guard by his bed. It was she who had told him that that Sirius was dead, Harry was inconsolable, and that Hermione - who he then saw to his horror was lying unconscious in a bed the other side of him - had been knocked out by a Death Eater's spell. They were keeping her sedated until they could work out what spell she'd been hit with, or whether there might be any lasting damage. It was all too much for him to take in. He'd been panicking, asking questions of Ginny that she seemed reluctant to answer - how come I don't remember any of this? How come I wasn't there when this happened? What the _fuck_ has happened to my arms? - when Madam Pomfrey swept in to tell her off for overexciting the patient and made her leave.

---

After that he was forced to take a sleeping draught, despite his protests, and when he next awoke, Hermione was sitting up in bed, watching him. Her eyes were red-rimmed and puffy and he knew without asking that she'd been told about Sirius. Over the next few days they had managed to piece together what had happened from Harry, Ginny, Neville and Luna. Funnily enough, when the others weren't around and they were alone together, they hadn't talked much at all, and when they had it was mostly about Harry.

---

They'd both been released from hospital after a week, ostensibly fine, although Ron made sure to watch Hermione extra closely for any possible side-effects. There were only a few days left until the end of term, and they'd spent most of that time out in the grounds, away from all the stares and questions. Ron might not have been able to protect Harry at the Ministry, but he was going to make damned sure that nobody bothered his friend about it now.

---

Of course, the result of this was that people kept coming up and bombarding _him_ with questions, since they didn't dare ask Harry. "What really happened that night?" "Is it true you fought Death Eaters?" "Was Sirius Black _really_ Harry's godfather?" And the question they all wanted to know, usually in a fearful whisper; "Is it true? Is You-Know-Who _really_ back?"

---

After a whole morning of this he'd come up with the lie that "I'm not allowed to talk about it, sorry", and had been amazed how easily this had been accepted. If anything, it added to their sense of awe and intrigue. They didn't seem to care about the truth, just what made the best story. He felt like a bit of a fraud. He hadn't done anything impressive or heroic that night. Quite the opposite, in fact. But the more he insisted, the more impressed they seemed. Even when he explained that he couldn't remember much about it, they just assumed he was being falsely modest. How he wished that were true.

---

Hermione had tried to get Harry to open up a couple of times - she always thought that talking about things would help - but Ron had cut her off, certain that Harry wasn't ready. In truth, he didn't feel much like discussing it either. Not that he needed reminding. Every minute of every day, every time he tied his shoelaces or reached for the salt, the scars were there to remind him. He remembered her gasp of horror when Madam Pomfrey had unwrapped the bandages for the first time, and the way her hand flew to her mouth in shock, or, more likely, revulsion. He saw the way people looked at his arms first, then his face, and then hurriedly away again. He knew now how Harry must have felt all this time, being defined by a scar rather than the person behind it, and remembered - with not a little shame - the time in fourth year when he and Harry weren't speaking. Harry had hurled a badge at his head and said something like, "There you go; maybe now you'll have a scar like mine! That's what you've always wanted, isn't it?" Well, no. It was _not_ what he wanted. He'd learnt the hard way - about twenty minutes into his first Quidditch match, in fact - that being the centre of attention was not all it was cracked up to be. This whole year had been something of a steep learning curve. It turned out there were a lot worse things in life than losing a Quidditch match. A _lot _worse things. Harry had lost Sirius. Sirius was _dead_. What were a few ugly scars compared to that?

---

And what were a few scars compared to how he'd have felt if the spell that had hit Hermione had been the Killing Curse? If Dolohov - a name now indelibly printed on the inside of his skull - had wanted to kill her, he could easily have done so. Ron would never have got the chance to tell her how much she meant to him. Even how much she meant to him as a _friend._ Still, in a way it made his decision not to admit his feelings easier. He had nearly lost her once. He could not risk losing her again.

---

He put the last of the eggs in the basket, straightened up, and raised his face to the warmth of the sun. It was a beautiful day. The morning mist had burned away and the sky was a brilliant, cloudless blue. A perfect day for being outside. As if on cue, he felt his arm start to itch again, and trudged back to the house with a resigned sigh.

---

The kitchen was empty except for Ginny, who was standing leaning back against the kitchen cabinet with her arms folded, glaring at the door as though she'd only been waiting for him to come in so she could give him an earful.

"Where's Hermione?" he demanded, ignoring this.

"She's gone back to bed," says Ginny, angrily, "She's got a _headache." _She shot him another deathly glare when she said this, making it patently clear she thought it was his fault.

Ron was not in the mood for this. _"What?" _he asked, testily.

"You know what."

"No. I _don't._ That's why I'm _asking_."

"Why did you laugh?"

He shrugged. "I don't know," he told her, truthfully.

"You're an idiot."

"Yeah, thanks."

"I mean, _Jesus! _Couldn't you see she was upset? What the hell is _wrong_ with you?"

Ron shrugged miserably.

"You know what you should do?"

He just glowered at her.

"You should go up there right now and apologise."

Ron felt the anger, always so close to the surface lately, bubble up inside him. "Yeah? Well, you know what _you_ should do?"

"_What?" _she bellowed back, stepping forward to square right up to him.

"Mind your own fucking business," he snarled. He pushed past her roughly and made for the stairs. "I don't know why I bothered getting up this morning, I really don't!"

"I don't know why you bothered, either!" she shouted after him.

Ron stomped upstairs as loudly as he could in bare feet, past Hermione's room, and up the stairs to his own room, where he slammed the door behind him as hard as he could. There was nowhere else to go. There was one bathroom in the house so you couldn't hide there for very long, he wasn't allowed beyond the boundaries of the property because it "wasn't safe", and he wasn't even allowed outside in frigging _daylight_ in case he shrivelled up like a sodding vampire! He felt like a caged animal. It was almost worse than being at Grimmauld Place. At least there he had the distraction of the bloody cleaning. He let out a humourless bark of laughter. Jesus, things must be bad if he was even missing the _cleaning…. _

_---_

He grabbed a towel and stomped back downstairs so his yells of frustration could be muffled by the noise of the shower. The only five minutes of the day where he actually felt clean, before he had to smother himself in the awful-smelling greasy ointment again. He pulled off his t-shirt and hurled it across the room, then yanked down and stepped out of his pyjama trousers and climbed into the shower. Steeling himself, he took a deep breath, set the shower to cold - letting out an involuntary gasp at the sensation of the icy water pounding his skin - and let the force of the water wash away all his thoughts.

---

* * *

---

Hermione lay curled up on her bed, talking softly to Crookshanks and tickling his chin. It was late in the evening, and she had been hiding in her room all day. She wasn't sure what to do. She didn't want it to seem like she was sulking with him - she had been angry earlier, but that was nine hours ago - and the longer she left it, the harder it would be. She certainly didn't want to be lying here all night worrying about it. Besides, she hadn't had anything to eat all day apart from the sandwich Ginny had brought her at lunch.

"What shall I do, Crookshanks?" she asked him.

Crookshanks just looked at her. She smiled.

"No, you _can't _scratch him. That's _my_ job."

Crookshanks let out a meow of protest, and she bent her head and pressed her lips softly to his warm fur.

"I love _both_ of you, you silly puss."

Her smile faded, and she sat up and swung her legs off the bed with renewed purpose.

"And that's why I can't stay up here hiding any longer."

---

* * *

---

The first she saw of him was his feet, clad in faded black socks and resting on a backwards-facing chair. Beyond that the rest of him was slumped low on the sofa, playing Exploding Snap with his sister, who was sitting next to him. Ginny looked up when she entered and smiled, but Ron kept his eyes firmly on the cards in his hand. She wasn't sure if he was just too engrossed in the game to have noticed her come in, or was deliberately avoiding her gaze.

---

Molly heated her up some leftovers, and as she ate she watched them across the room, how physically close they were, how comfortable they were together. Ginny said something and laughed and Ron affected outrage and got her arm up her back until she gave in, both of them laughing and playfully shoving each other. Hermione smiled to herself, feeling strangely wistful. She couldn't imagine ever having that kind of physical closeness with Ron. She couldn't even sit that close to him on the sofa, with their arms just brushing against each other, the way theirs were now. As she watched, Ginny ran her fingertips down Ron's forearm, tracing the lines of his scars, and he reacted instinctively, jerking his arm away and, for some reason, immediately glancing across at Hermione. Given half a second's warning, she was able to look quickly away just in time, her face burning. When she dared look up again, Ron was staring tensely at his hand of cards and Ginny was speaking quietly and calmly to him. A moment later she was hugging him around the shoulders and kissing the top of his head, and he was pulling a face and laughing and attempting to wriggle away from her embrace. Five seconds, all over. Hermione supposed they'd had a lifetime to work out a shorthand for apology and forgiveness. The thought made her feel oddly jealous.

---

She watched him across the room with a frown, more convinced than ever that they needed to talk about what had happened. It was funny, but that week they'd spent alone together in the hospital wing they had barely spoken at all. Of course, they had both been tired and sleepy from all the potions they were taking, but that wasn't the only reason. They had talked a little about Harry, of course - the perpetual subject they could always return to - but not at all about their own experiences that night. It was a new but not unpleasant feeling to spend so much time with Ron, where not only did they not bicker or argue, but they didn't even _talk_. She had rather liked it, if she were honest. It was nice not to _need_ to talk, and good that they knew each other well enough not to ask difficult questions, or wonder why the other was so uncharacteristically quiet.

---

But that was three weeks ago, and she hadn't really spent any time alone with him since. She felt as though all the thoughts were jumbled up in her head and if she could just talk to Ron about them, get them out into the open, she'd be able to think more clearly. She wanted to know what he remembered, wanted to share the horror with someone, let it out, with someone who understood. The _only_ other person who would understand.

---

Last night she had arrived late and Ron had been playing a very long game of chess with Bill, so she hadn't really had the opportunity to talk to him beyond "hello" and "who's winning?" When it had become apparent that the match wasn't going to finish any time soon, she had given up and gone to bed. Now, after the way he'd been acting towards her today, she wondered if he had been deliberately avoiding her, and whether he even wanted her here. Perhaps she should have just stayed at home after all.

---

She shivered in the cool night air, and decided to go upstairs and fetch a jumper while she had the chance. When she returned a few minutes later, Ron was nowhere in sight. Ginny met her questioning gaze and nodded her head silently towards the kitchen, then returned to her magazine. The kitchen was empty, but the back door was wide open and she could just see one large be-socked foot sticking out into the triangle of light spilling from the doorway. She made herself a cup of tea, taking her time about it to calm her suddenly racing heart, then took a deep breath and stepped into the doorway. For several long minutes neither of them spoke, unsure whether an apology was expected or would only make things worse. Finally, Hermione cleared her throat, and Ron looked up.

"Mind if I join you?" she asked, gesturing at the empty spot beside him on the bench.

Be my guest!" said Ron, a little too brightly. He shuffled up quickly to make room, although there was more than enough space already. Hermione sat down at the other end of the bench, mumbling an awkward "thank you".

There was another painfully long silence. Ron felt as though he ought to apologise, but he didn't want to make her cry again. Hermione wanted to ask him about his arms, but Ginny's attempt had already proved he didn't want to discuss it. The last thing she wanted to do was upset him. And yet... she still needed to talk about this, almost desperately. Ron needed to talk about it too, even if he would really rather _not_. Who else were they going to talk about it with if not each other?

"Are there any biscuits?" she asked, eventually.

Ron breathed an almost audible sigh of relief. So they weren't going to have the "why are you being such an arsehole?" conversation after all. Thank Merlin!

"Yeah, I think there are some in the tin," he told her, flashing her a grateful smile. "Do you want me to get them for you?"

"No, that's alright."

She hadn't really wanted the biscuits in the first place; they were merely a conversational ice-breaker.

"Are you sure? I think Mum's been baking so they'll be nice and fresh." He half-rose from the bench. "I'll get them for you."

She put a hand on his arm. "No, don't. I'm fine. Really. I'll just drink my tea."

Well, why did you _ask_, then? thought Ron, but he sat back down anyway.

More silence. Hermione began to wish she had accepted the biscuits, just so she'd have something to do with her hands.

"So," she began, brightly, "What have _you_ been up to since I saw you last?"

He shrugged. "Not much."

She waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't say anything, so she tried again.

"Have you been to see the twins' new shop yet?"

He just shook his head.

"The house feels really quiet without them, doesn't it?"

A derisive snort of laughter.

"I bet you miss them, really," she teased, weakly.

"Yeah," said Ron, surprising even himself with his answer.

Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye with a frown.

"You're not very talkative tonight."

"No."

"It's not... it's not something I said, is it?"

"No, it's nothing to do with you. I'm just… tired. Sorry," he added.

"That's alright."

_Pause. _

"Ron… are you... are you okay?"

He hesitated. "Yeah. 'Course. What d'you mean?"

"Well… I don't know… you just seem…"

"What?"

She shrugged helplessly.

"I'm fine," he repeated. "What about you? How's the head?"

She blinked at him, confused. "The head?"

Ron's brow furrowed in suspicion. "Ginny said you had a headache."

Hermione flushed at being caught in such an obvious lie. "Oh! Yes, that's right! Yes, it's gone now. Thanks for asking."

Ron stretched his legs out in front of him and she noticed that the toes of one of his socks had a small hole in it.

"I thought you were going to get some new slippers."

"I did."

"Well, what happened to them?"

"My feet," he told her, with a slight grin. "Mum says there's no point buying me slippers until I stop growing, 'cos I just wear through them in about three months."

"Maybe I'll buy you some for Christmas."

"Please don't."

They both laughed and, feeling encouraged, she decided that the softy-softly approach was definitely best.

"So have you heard from Harry?"

"Yeah, I got a letter a few days ago. Well, not really a letter. Just a few lines."

Hermione nodded sadly. "I did too. What did he say in yours?"

Ron managed a short bark of laughter. "Not much. Just that if Dudley didn't watch himself, he was going to find himself on the wrong end of a Bat-Bogey Hex. I don't think he's having a very good time."

"Well, that's hardly surprising, is it? Considering everything that's happened."

"I _know,"_ he said wearily, "I'm just _saying._"

They both stared out into the darkness, thinking about their friend.

"I can't even begin to imagine what he must be going through," said Hermione, eventually. "I mean, if anything happened to _my_ mum and dad..." She gave an involuntary shudder.

"Mm," said Ron, remembering how he'd felt when he'd only _thought_ his dad was going to die. If Harry was even going through a fraction of that... "It's not like he was his real dad, though."

"No," agreed Hermione, "But he was the closest thing to it. And I suppose he was a connection to Harry's parents as well."

Ron stared at her, amazed. He hadn't even thought about that. She was always able to notice things like that. Personal things that no-one else would even think about.

"You're right," he nodded. "That's a really good point. I suppose there's just Lupin now who remembers them. Well, and _Pettigrew, _of course." He spat out the name with evident disgust. "But he can hardly ask the bloke who's responsible for their murders if he's got any nice happy stories about them."

They were both silent for a few moments.

"Do you know when he's coming to stay with you?"

Ron shook his head. "Not yet. _Oh!"_

"What?"

"I didn't tell you!"

"_What?"_

"Well... you know Bill's been going out with Fleur Delacour?"

Hermione nodded.

"Well, she's now his fiancée."

Hermione let out an involuntary squeal. "They're getting _married?"_

He frowned. It wasn't like Hermione to care about all that girly stuff. If she asked to see the ring as well, then the world had officially gone mad.

"Yeah. And obviously he's busy with work and the Order and that, so she's coming to stay with us for the summer."

Hermione's delight evaporated instantly. "She's coming _here? _To stay with _you?"_

Ron didn't exactly sound overjoyed about the idea either. "Yeah. Bill wants her to get to know his family." He gave a humourless snort. "Ginny says she knows all she needs to about that stuck-up French cow already, thanks very much"

Well, thought Hermione, at least I'll have an ally in Ginny. But she felt unaccountably depressed. She'd thought she'd get Ron all to herself for at least a few weeks before Harry arrived and now it was only going to be a couple of days and then That Bitch was going to ruin everything. How was she ever going to get a look-in with the lovely Fleur turning his head, swanning around the house in a very small towel? The logical part of her brain knew that it was mostly magic, that Ron couldn't help the way he fell completely to pieces in her presence, but at least some of it _must_ be him. The worst thing was although she hated how Ron acted around Fleur, she hated even more how it made _her_ act and feel. Never mind that the whole thing was completely irrational, Fleur was beautiful and lovely and Ron turned into a weak-kneed, fawning, moon-eyed idiot around her, and it made Hermione want to break things. Like his head.

"They came round for Sunday lunch last weekend," Ron continued, "Fleur tried to cosy up to Mum by making us a pot of tea. Most piss-weak tea I've ever had in my life." He said the last almost with relish.

"Well," said Hermione, fairly, "They don't really drink tea in France. It's a coffee-drinking nation."

"That explains a lot," said Ron, dryly.

"I thought you _liked _Fleur?" she asked, sneakily.

The effect was instantaneous. Ron spluttered incomprehensively. "Yeah, but not - I mean, it's not like I - she's alright - I don't _fancy_ - look, it's not my fault, she's a _Veela_; it's a _spell!"_

"I know," she sighed, feeling slightly ashamed for even bringing it up. "So when's the wedding?"

"Next summer, I think. Not for ages."

"Where are they having it, here or in France?"

She'd never been to a wizarding wedding. The thought of it was rather exciting. Especially if - no, she would not dare hope. It was a year away. Although if she had to wait a whole_ year _for him to ask her on a date...

"Here," said Ron. He gestured at the lawn in front of them. "Literally here, in the garden. Can you imagine Mum letting Bill get married in _France?"_

She laughed. "Well... _no..."_

He laughed too. "Me neither."

Hermione shivered in the cool night air, and pulled her sleeves down over her hands for warmth. She glanced sideways at Ron, who was only wearing a t-shirt.

"Aren't you cold?" she asked him.

He shrugged. "I don't mind. I like the fresh air."

They fell into silence again, but it was no longer awkward, just companionable.

"So how's your dad? I missed him last night."

"Oh, yeah, he was working late."

"Is he alright now? I mean, I haven't seen him since the New Year."

"He's fine. Mum's not happy about him working late all the time, but what can he do? The Order don't give you nights off just because your wife's cooked you a nice pie."

"She must be really worried. Especially with Bill in the Order too."

"And Fred and George. She doesn't like it much, but they've left school now, and they've been of age for over a year, so there's not a lot she can do about it."

They were silent for a few moments, and then he said, "You'll be of age in September, won't you? Do you think you'll join up?"

Hermione was rather surprised at him asking such a direct question. "I haven't really thought about it. I don't suppose they'll let us join until we've left school anyway."

"Mm," said Ron. "But it's not like we're not already involved. Like Ginny says, who was it who fought Death Eaters at the Ministry again?"

She glanced at him sharply. It was the first time he'd mentioned the events at the Ministry since she'd been here. She hadn't even had to bring up the subject herself. Maybe he _did_ want to talk about it after all.

"I'm not sure that _fought_ is the right word," she said, carefully.

"Yeah, so much for all that stuff we learnt with the DA."

"Well, to be fair, without it we might not be here at all. But, yes, you're right. It just showed me what a world of difference there is between fighting in a classroom against, say, _Neville_, and fighting in the real world against someone who wants to cause you harm."

Ron's fists clenched automatically at the thought of someone wanting to cause her harm. If only he'd _been_ there! If only they hadn't got separated, if only he hadn't been hit by that curse, if only he hadn't wandered into the brain room, if only Harry hadn't given up his Occlumency lessons with Snape, You-Know-Who wouldn't have been able to get inside his head, make him see things that weren't really true, lure him to the Ministry on a rescue mission that ended up getting the very person they'd come to save killed -

Guilt coursed through him. It wasn't Harry's fault. And if it had been _his_ dad, or someone he cared about, he wouldn't have stopped to consider whether it was a trick either. If it had been _Hermione_...

He reached for his tea distractedly, took a sip, and then immediately spat it out in disgust.

"_Urgh!"_

"What's the matter?"

"There's no sugar in this!"

She started to laugh. "You must have picked up mine by mistake. Honestly, from your reaction anyone'd think you'd swallowed poison!"

"I might as well have," he retorted, swapping over the cups quickly and taking a large mouthful of his own tea to get rid of the taste. "Tea without sugar!" He shuddered. "It's just _weird_."

"Yes, but you think that _anything_ without sugar is weird. If you had your way you'd probably put sugar in mashed potatoes."

He pretended to take offence. "I'm not _that_ bad!"

"No," she admitted, teasingly, "But you're still my parents' worst nightmare."

The smile slipped off his face immediately. "What do you mean?"

She laughed. "Because they're _dentists_, of course! What did you _think_ I meant?"

Ron flushed under cover of darkness and decided that a swift change of subject was called for.

"So what have _you_ been up to, then?"

"Oh, you know, not a lot. A bit of reading. Just relaxing, really."

That was a downright lie. She hadn't picked up a book for weeks. And the last fortnight at home had hardly been what you might call relaxing.

"I would have thought you were sick of books after spending most of the last year revising. What are you going to do with yourself next term now our exams are over?"

Hermione considered for a moment. "Well... I shall just enjoy spending time with my _friends_, I expect. Besides, there'll be plenty of work to keep me busy."

"No, there won't. We're giving up half our subjects. We're bound to have loads of free time now we're sixth formers."

"But NEWTs are _much_ harder than OWLs! Alright, so we'll be studying fewer subjects, but we'll be studying them in much greater _depth._"

"Right," said Ron, privately thinking that she could speak for herself. "I'm just glad I never have to do Divination again. It'll be nice to have my dreams to myself again."

There was a short silence. Hermione wanted to ask him if he ever dreamed about what had happened at the Ministry, but it didn't seem like the right moment. She searched her brain for another neutral subject.

"So I suppose you've been out playing Quidditch, getting some practice in for next season?"

"Yeah. _No. _Not really."

_"No?"_

He shook his head.

"Why not?"

"Just haven't felt like it."

Hermione opened her mouth to question him further but he cut her off quickly. "Anyway, I'm not sure I'll even try for the team next year."

"What? _Why?"_

He shrugged. "I dunno. It just doesn't seem very important right now."

"Not _now_, no. But don't you think Harry'll be glad of the distraction when we go back to school? Besides, he loves Quidditch. You do too," she added, pointedly.

"I'm kind of the on the fence, to be honest," said Ron, dryly.

"Oh, don't give me that. Look, I saw how gutted Harry was that Gryffindor finally won the Cup and he wasn't part of it. He'll want to try again next year, I'm sure he will. And he'll want his best friend beside him when he lifts that cup."

Ron was silent for a few moments. "You're assuming I'll get on the team."

"Why wouldn't you?"

"Well… I dunno, there'll be a new captain, won't there? They'll want to make their mark on the team. Maybe they'll find someone better to play in goal."

"But you _won_ _the Cup!"_ she exclaimed, laughing. "You kept saying you had no chance, and you won it!"

_But you didn't even see it,_ he thought to himself. _I did it all for you, and_ _you didn't even see the match. _

"Yeah," he said testily, "And I'm not saying it wasn't brilliant. It was probably the best moment of my _life_, in fact. But I'm still not sure it was worth putting myself through all that trauma."

She was silent for a few moments. "But you're past all that now. It was just nerves and you doubting yourself. Now you _know_ you're good enough to be on the team, and you've got your name on the Cup to prove it."

Ron felt his face grow warm. That sounded suspiciously like a compliment. "Yeah," he mumbled, glancing at his feet to hide his red face. "I suppose so."

"Of course you are," she said confidently. "And I'm sure you'll be fine next year. It was just teething troubles."

Ron raised his eyebrows quizzically and she laughed.

"Alright, a whole _year_ of teething troubles. But you didn't give up, and you came good in the end. That's the most important thing. And even better," she added mischievously, "Slytherin came last!"

Ron laughed out loud. "I know! I can't decide which one I'm happier about, winning the Cup or the look on Malfoy's face afterwards!"

"He won't be singing that awful song again anytime soon," said Hermione, with evident satisfaction.

Ron shook his head. "Nah, he will. He'll hate me even more now I've beaten him at something." He beamed at her, clearly delighted by the thought. _"And," _he added gleefully, "It looks as though his dad might be going to _prison!_ So he won't be able to swan around acting all superior anymore!"

Hermione frowned. She wasn't sure it was right to laugh at Malfoy for something that his father had done. It wasn't his fault his father was a Death Eater, was it? They should take the moral high ground.

Ron noticed her frown and stopped smiling at once. He wished he hadn't mentioned Malfoy's dad. Now she was probably thinking about the Ministry again. And now _he_ was too. He rubbed his forearm distractedly and Hermione glanced up at the movement.

"Do they hurt?" she asked, without thinking.

A huge jolt went through him. He didn't reply for several moments, during which Hermione cursed ever having asked the question, and then he shrugged miserably and mumbled, "Not really."

Hermione bit her lip. "If you don't want to talk about it…"

He hesitated, not sure how far he wanted to go with this conversation. "They itch sometimes," he admitted, hoping that a little information would stop her asking any more difficult questions.

There was another long, uncomfortable silence. Ron deliberately slid his hands under his thighs so he wouldn't be tempted to scratch his arms again and draw her attention to them.

"You're still using the cream?"

He nodded. "Only for another week though."

"Do you - do you have the marks -" - she gestured to her ribcage – "Around _here_ as well?"

Why did she feel so warm all of a sudden?

Ron flushed slightly. "Yeah," he mumbled. "But they're not as bad as the ones on my arms 'cos obviously my arms were bare, so the, ah -" he coloured slightly, and lowered his voice - "_Brains_ were able to touch the skin directly. Well, that's what Madam Pomfrey said, anyway."

She wondered if he would lift his shirt and show her, but of course he didn't. In fact, now that she thought about it, she realised that she'd never once seen Ron with his shirt off. Even in the summer holidays when it was hot and his brothers and Harry would strip to the waist to play Quidditch in the field behind the house, he never did. She'd never seen him wearing shorts either. Mind you, it wasn't exactly standard issue clothing for a wizard.

"Everyone thinks it's really funny," said Ron, softly.

She stared at him, confused. "Everyone thinks _what's_ funny?"

He held up his arms with a weary smile. "Me being attacked by brains. Everyone thinks it's the funniest thing _ever_."

"_I _don't," she said, fiercely.

Ginny didn't think it was funny either. She had told Hermione - in horrified tones - that in another minute he'd have suffocated. She'd had to lie there on the floor, completely incapacitated by her broken ankle, unable to move or do anything to help and just watch it happen. She had said it was one of the most terrifying experiences of her life.

Ron shrugged. "Well, you're the only one. Seamus thinks it's _hilarious_. Fred and George haven't stopped taking the piss since I got home. Malfoy -"

"Nobody who's _important_ thinks it's funny," she said, angrily. "I promise you that."

Ron said nothing, just stared at his feet miserably. How had they ended up having this conversation, when it was the very thing he'd been trying to avoid? It was just Hermione, with her annoying knack of making him talk about stuff he didn't want to talk about.

She shot a sideways glance at his arm as he rubbed it distractedly again. Usually in summer his arms would be brown with freckles, but now they were criss-crossed by a mass of ugly white scars. It made her feel angry and sick at the same time. She remembered that day in her parents' back garden almost exactly two years ago when she'd first noticed how freckly his arms were in the sun, and the odd, squirming sensation it had elicited in her stomach. A new sensation she did not yet understand. Now, of course, she knew _exactly_ what it was. Many times since she had wondered how it might feel to have his arms wrapped around her, imagined herself pressing her lips to his skin and kissing every last beautiful freckle, one by one. It was an awful thing to have happened, and she felt as though the attack had struck at the very core of his being. That by obliterating his freckles, they were obliterating _him_. It was almost as though his hair had changed colour.

"I saw you this morning," she said, abruptly.

"What?"

"In the garden."

Ron paled. _"What?"_

"I wasn't _spying_ on you!" she explained, hastily. "I woke up early and looked out of the window and I saw - well, _you_. It was only about half past six."

"Why did you wake up early?" he countered at once.

Hermione was temporarily stumped for an answer. "I don't know," she told him. "I suppose the birds must have woken me up."

Ron raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"I haven't been sleeping that well lately," she admitted, and he relaxed a little bit. _That_ he understood. And then he frowned, realising what that might mean.

"You mean, since the Ministry," he said flatly.

She nodded, and he felt even worse. She probably had nightmares about it. The unwanted image of her being struck in the chest by a bolt of blue light flashed into his head once again, and he gripped the edge of the bench hard.

"I thought you were looking at something in the trees," she went on, and it took him several seconds to realise she was talking about this morning again. "I thought, just for a moment…"

She shrugged, and tailed off. They both knew what she meant.

"So what _were_ you doing up so early?" she persisted. "Last summer you could barely manage to get out of bed before midday!" She managed a weak laugh, but it died in her throat.

"Same as you," said Ron, scratching his arm reflexively. "Birds woke me up."

"Oh," she said, feeling rather annoyed with herself for providing him with an easy answer.

"Yeah," Ron continued, warming to his lie now, "So I thought I might as well get up and make myself a cup of tea. You should have come downstairs; I could have made you one too."

"Yes, that's the solution to everything, isn't it?" she said, rather harshly.

Ron watched her uneasily, but said nothing, while Hermione stared at her shoes, her face burning, and wished she could bite off her tongue. Finally, he got to his feet and disappeared back into the house without a word.

She leant her head back against the wall and closed her eyes, letting out a soft moan of frustration. Oh, well done, Hermione, she admonished herself. You really handled that well, didn't you? You _knew_ he didn't want to talk about it. Why couldn't you just leave things alone? Why -

"Hey."

Her eyes flew open again. Ron was standing in front of her holding a small plate.

"What's this?" she asked, warily.

He shrugged. "The solution to everything."

"What?"

He sat down beside her again, and pushed the little plate towards her along the bench. On it were six custard creams in two neat little piles of three.

"Look, I'm really sorry about what happened earlier -"

"Ron, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have -"

They both stopped abruptly mid-sentence and laughed, rather nervously.

"It's okay," she told him. "Forget it."

Ron nodded. He picked up the plate again and offered it to her hopefully.

"Biscuit? They're not home-made, but..."

"Thanks," she said, taking one and proffering a grateful smile in return.

Ron's mum suddenly appeared in the doorway. "Have you brought your washing down yet?" she demanded.

Ron gave the tiniest of exasperated sighs. "Not yet."

"Well, do you think you could possibly take time out of your busy schedule gossiping to bring it downstairs? I've only asked you about ten times."

"Alright."

"_Now_, please, Ronald."

"_Alright!" _

She swept back inside with a pointed harrumph, and Ron and Hermione exchanged amused looks.

"She seems a bit stressed," observed Hermione.

"Nah," said Ron, "She's just annoyed because I ate her jelly."

There was a short silence while Hermione replayed his words in her head, certain she must have misheard him. Finally, she started to laugh.

_"What?" _

Ron laughed too. "I ate her jelly."

"I thought that's what you said. I thought maybe I was going deaf."

He shook his head. "She left it out to set over night so she could make a trifle, but I was up early this morning, and it was a long time 'til breakfast, and it was just sitting there, and I was really hungry, and it looked _sooo_ good, and... um..."

He gave a sheepish little shrug.

"You ate it."

"Yep."

"You ate a _whole jelly?"_

He shrugged and grinned. "Yeah, but it's mostly water, isn't it? It's not like I ate a whole pie or anything."

She shook her head despairingly and they both laughed. "A _whole jelly_, Ron?"

"What can I say?"

"What flavour was it?"

"Orange."

She raised an ironic eyebrow. "Cannons colours?"

He laughed out loud. "Oh, yeah! I didn't even notice! I think I'd still have eaten it if it had been, I dunno, Slytherin green or something, though."

"I'm sure you would," said Hermione, dryly.

They both laughed, and the smile stayed on her face for a long time afterwards. When was the last time she had anything to smile about, she wondered. Before the Ministry, certainly. Maybe she didn't _need_ to have this conversation now. Sometime soon, yes, but it could wait. For now she was quite happy to just sit here on the bench with Ron and feel normal again, talking about silly things. She felt stronger, somehow. As though she could cope with anything with Ron beside her.

She leant her head back against the wall of the house and lifted her gaze to the night sky above them. The muddy pond at the end of the garden shimmered like a pool of mercury in the moonlight. Beyond it, a faint breeze stirred the leaves on the ancient oak trees. Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted.

"It's a beautiful night," she said softly.

"It is," agreed Ron, with a small smile.

They sat there gazing up at the moonlit sky for some time, the plate of biscuits lying forgotten between them. There was no need to talk.

Ron let out a long breath, feeling as though he'd been holding it in for days. It was funny; yesterday he had been dreading her arrival, but now she was here, he felt lighter somehow, happier. As though a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

"I'm really glad you're here," he said quietly, and he meant it.

Hermione glanced at him out of the corner of her eye, but he kept his gaze fixed firmly ahead of him.

She smiled to herself.

"I'm glad I'm here too."

---

* * *

_Endnote:_

_Thanks for reading, and do let me know what you thought of the chapter. To me, it's an ending of sorts, because after this we're in sixth year, and - well, that's when things really start to kick off. (Edited to say: AN ending, people, not THE end! You've got another year of this yet!)  
_

_You might also be interested to know that from now on this story runs parallel to my 6th year Ron p.o.v. story "Six Foot Of Ginger Idiot", which picks up about a week after the end of this chapter. You can read both stories separately, or, if you'd like to read them together in chronological order, please read up until the end of September (the story's in diary format, and each chapter covers a separate month of the year). And do leave reviews for both stories if you can. I'll be very interested to hear how you think they work together._

_Thanks again, and don't forget to vote! _

_Pb x_


	17. Chapter 17: Glasses

_Author's Note:_

_Well, it's been an interesting few months, to say the least. I'll try to reduce the whole sorry saga to a couple of sentences for you. In mid-April I learned that the company where I've worked for nearly 14 years had been taken over and redundancies were sure to follow. As you can imagine, this rather knocked me for six__. __Since then my life's pretty much been on hold. I've been coming into work every day not knowing if it'll be my last. __I haven't been able to make any plans more than about a week in advance. I haven't been able to spend any money in case I needed it later. I've considered moving halfway around the country, going back to university, changing career completely, and every other option that would mean not having to sign on (did that once; never again). Basically, it's been very, very stressful, and __I'm sure you can appreciate that fanfiction took something of a back seat during this time. _

_Anyway, ten days ago we were told that for various reasons the takeover is now NOT going ahead after all. __Which means that we went through all that trauma for nothing, but more importantly, it means that I still have a job, this story is back on course, and hopefully - at least for the time being - that's the end of it._

_Thanks for your patience and understanding and I hope you enjoy the chapter. This one's rather like an iceberg; there's a lot going on, but 90 per cent of it is under the surface..._

_Pinky Brown, 19th July __2010_

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Glasses**

**Tuesday**

Hermione looked up as the portrait hole swung open and first Ron and then Harry climbed through, both of them looking tight-lipped and tense. They sank into nearby armchairs and stared miserably at their shoes, neither acknowledging her presence nor apparently in any hurry to enlighten her on how their evening had gone. If she didn't know any better, she would have assumed that someone had died.

Ron leant back in his chair and let out a long, slow breath. Tonight had been a _disaster. _He could hardly have played worse if he tried. Harry hadn't said anything but it was obvious he regretted letting Ron be on the team. Ginny _had _said something; quite a lot, actually. Mostly a lot of variations on "what the hell is wrong with you?" and "pull yourself together". Easy for _her_ to say. Quidditch came naturally to Ginny; he had to _work_ at it.

Tonight there had been a handful of third year Slytherins watching from the stands - Malfoy might have got bored of baiting Ron, but he'd set the wheels in motion and there were plenty of junior Malfoys eager to follow in his footsteps. They had deliberately sat right under the goal hoops, and for the first hour (until they'd got bored) it had been a constant stream of catcalls, singing ("Weasley Is Our King", what else?), ill-timed coughing, and generally doing everything they could to put him off. Not that he'd played any better once they had left.

He should never have tried for the team again, that was his mistake. He should have quit while he was ahead, just been grateful he'd been lucky enough to get his name on the Cup _once_, and retired gracefully. But then Harry kept saying how cool it would be if they were both on the team and he had allowed himself to be talked back into it. Started getting hopeful again, thinking that since he'd won the Cup once things couldn't be as bad as last year. But they were. He had seriously considered resigning after that disastrous first practice last week, but by then he'd met and instantly hated Cormac McLaggen, his rival for the Keeper spot, and that had spurred him on. The thought of that smug idiot playing Keeper instead of him made Ron want to kick a hole in something. You wouldn't think it was possible for him to be even more a swaggering bighead than he was already, but if he made Keeper, he'd be _unbearable_.

"Well?" asked Hermione impatiently, "How did it go?"

Ron gave a snort of derisive laughter but didn't look up from his shoes, and Harry just shook his head.

"Don't ask."

"That bad?"

"Worse."

She waited for him to elaborate but he seemed in no mood to relive the experience for her benefit.

"Never mind," she said soothingly, "It's only practice." She reached down into her bag and thus missed the looks of appalled incredulity that passed between her friends. "I've got something that'll cheer you up. Where did I put it? Oh, here we go!"

Ron stared impassively at the packet of chocolate biscuits she was proffering, and Hermione's hand wavered slightly.

"Go on," she insisted brightly, "Have a biscuit!"

_What am I,_ _a_ _poodle? _he thought, but he just shook his head. "No, thanks."

"But I brought them up 'specially!"

Ron bit his lip. _Why, because you knew I'd play really badly and need cheering up?_

"No, honestly, I'm fine."

"Oh _go_ on." She waved the packet tantalisingly in front of his face. "They're your favourite!"

"I _told _you, I don't want any. Anyway," he added, tetchily, "Custard creams are my favourite."

"No, they're not."

"Er… _yes_, they _are_."

"_No. _They're _not. _Chocolate ones are."

"Oh, okay. I _think_ I'd know what my favourite biscuits were, but if _you_ say it's chocolate ones, I suppose I must be _wrong_."

"Well, there's no need to be like _that_ about it!"

Ron closed his eyes for a few moments as though in pain. "I'm not being like _anything_ about it; I'm just saying I don't want any bloody biscuits. Is that alright with you? Or do I need your permission now for everything I do?"

"No, of course you don't need my per-"

"Well, that's alright, then."

She opened her mouth and closed it again, rather hurt. There was a short, rather tense silence. Sitting three feet away Harry said a silent prayer that she would just leave it at that. But then, this was Hermione they were talking about. She could _never_ just leave it, especially where Ron was concerned. And sure enough…

"I've never known you to turn down a _biscuit_ before."

"Well, I'm sorry I'm so predictable!"

"Oh, Ron, don't act all offended, I'm only offering you a biscuit. All you had to do was say no -"

"I _did_ say no! About four fucking minutes ago, so why are we even still having this conversation?"

"I've absolutely no idea!"

"Fine!"

_"Fine!"_

They sank into huffy silence. Harry sighed and pushed his glasses up his nose, thinking to himself that they were probably the only two people in the entire world who could have an argument about _biscuits._

Ron slumped even lower in his chair, let his legs slide out in front of him, crossed his arms tightly across his chest, and stared moodily up at the ceiling. The most annoying thing was that now he really _did_ want a biscuit, but there was no way he could ask for one, not after making such a big fuss. He sighed, reached down into his bag and pulled out his textbook. Woo-hoo, Potions homework. The perfect end to a perfect evening.

Hermione glared at his bent head and turned her quill furiously over and over between her fingers. She had just remembered she needed to tell Harry something, but she knew exactly how Ron would react to the news, and it would not be _well_. Mind you, the mood he was in lately it probably wouldn't make much difference. If he could take offence at being offered a _biscuit..._

"So, Harry," she began tentatively, "I got a note from Professor Slughorn earlier -"

"_Professor_ Slughorn?" scoffed Ron at once, "I'm surprised you're not on first name terms by now. Don't you call him _Old Sluggy?"_

Hermione shot him one of her most withering glares, then turned back to Harry. "As I was saying, Harry; he's having one of his little get-togethers next Wednesday night and he specifically asked me to mention it to you. He said he wouldn't accept any excuses."

"Oh, what a shame," said Harry, almost managing to sound as though he was genuinely sorry, "That's when we've got our next Quidditch practice."

"_What?"_ interjected Ron, so surprised he forgot to be annoyed, "I didn't know you'd scheduled next week's practice already!"

"That's because it only happened fifteen seconds ago," said Harry, dryly.

Ron laughed, but Hermione looked outraged. "You can't keep scheduling practices for the same nights as Slughorn's parties!" she protested, "You'll have to go to one sooner or later!"

"I can do what I like," said Harry stubbornly, "I'm Quidditch Captain and Quidditch is a _lot _more important than some stupid boring party."

"Hear, hear," said Ron, under his breath.

Hermione ignored him. "But... that means I'll have to go on my _own._ Who am I going to talk to without you or Ginny there?"

"Sorry," said Harry, with a shrug.

"No, you're not," she snapped back.

"No, I'm not," he grinned. "Look, you don't have to go either, you know. It's not compulsory."

"That's not the point. Oh, shut up," she said to Ron, who was looking a lot more cheerful all of a sudden.

"Harry's right, though," he said, rather too eagerly, "You don't _have_ to go. I mean, if you don't _want_ to..."

"Did I say I didn't want to?"

She slammed her book open on her lap as if to put an end to the conversation.

Ron's face dropped. He'd sort of assumed that when Harry said he wasn't going, she wouldn't want to either. Actually, he'd pretty much assumed that Slughorn's party last month was a one-off, that the humiliation of not being invited to a party that not only both his best friends but his little sister had all been invited to was something he wouldn't have to face again. Once was bad enough, but if it was going to be a _regular _thing… She was right; Harry couldn't keep making up excuses forever. Sooner or later he'd have to go, and then Ron would be sitting on his own in the common room like a loser while his two best friends went to a party _together_.

And as if that wasn't bad enough, that tosser McLaggen had got an invite, by virtue of his mother's cousin's sister having once played darts with Slughorn or something. The Professor liked to surround himself with the brilliant, the talented, the famous and the connected, and it had been made quite clear to Ron that he was none of these. Not that this came as exactly a shock, of course. He'd long since accepted that he was always going to be in Harry and Hermione's shadow, but he was damned if he was going to be in_ McLaggen's. _

It was starting to feel like McLaggen was muscling in on every part of his life; trying to take over on the Quidditch field, going to parties with Ron's friends, telling Harry he should get rid of Ron and employ him as Keeper instead, and generally swanning around like he owned the place. Last year he had hardly been aware of the hulking presence of Cormac McLaggen - well, he was in the year above, why would he? - but this year he suddenly seemed to be _everywhere_ and Ron didn't like it one bit.

Movement by his feet made him glance up. Hermione's quill was rolling across the floorboards towards him. They both leant down to pick it up at the same time, but as she reached across him he was suddenly confronted with a perfect close-up view right down her blouse and reared back in panic, letting out an involuntary _"Aargh!" _as he did so.

She snatched the quill from his fingers and resumed her seat again, and Ron fell back into his chair, his mind racing and his heart thumping wildly. For a moment there - literally a flash - he'd been so close he could actually see _inside_ her bra and the little triangle of skin between her - her - _oh_, _fuck! _He dug his fingernails deep into his palms to try and distract his brain from the sudden image overload, but it was no use. All he could think about - all he could _see_ - were _breasts_, lurching towards his face in intoxicating close-up. No sooner had this image entered his mind than a flood of other images did too. Images of things he shouldn't be thinking about doing to - _with! - _his best friend. It wasn't his fault though, was it? He hadn't asked her to thrust her tits practically in his face, had he? He remembered his panicked reaction and groaned. Shit, he hoped he wouldn't freak out like that if he ever actually got to see a _real _girl's tits - not that Hermione wasn't a real girl, of course. She was _wonderfully_ real, all round and soft and round and oh, Christ, his face felt like it was practically on _fire!_ Other things felt like they were on fire too, and he was very glad he was sitting so low in the chair that his knees were higher than the rest of him.

He caught her eye and looked away hurriedly, quite sure she must be able to read his mind, or at least guess what he was thinking about from how red his face was.

_"What?" _she demanded.

"What?" repeated Ron, stupidly.

_I wasn't staring at your tits!_

"Nothing," he mumbled, "I was just…"

_Staring at your tits. _

He thought fast: "Can you believe we've got so much homework?"

_Yes, that'll do. Homework. A nice, safe subject. Nothing to do with Hermione's tits. Shit, don't look at them again! What's wrong with you? _

"I mean, I thought that once we'd ditched half our subjects we'd have loads of free time, but we actually get _more _homework than we did when we were studying for our OWLs!"

"I did _tell _you," said Hermione, settling back in her chair and opening her book again.

Something about her tone irritated the hell out of him. "Did you?"

"Yes. In the summer. Don't you remember?"

"Funnily enough, Hermione, I don't memorise _every single thing you ever say _in case you ask me about it three months later."

Harry glanced up warily at his friend's tone, and made a hasty attempt to avert the oncoming storm: "Did you see Malfoy wasn't in Potions again? Do you think he was ill?"

_"Excuse _me?" interrupted Hermione, angrily.

"What?" shrugged Ron, also ignoring Harry completely.

"What do you mean; _what? _Why are you being so stroppy?"

"I'm not."

Yes, you are. You've been biting our heads off all evening."

A slight pink tinge crept up Ron's cheek. "I'm surprised you even noticed," he mumbled.

Hermione stared at him for a few moments, then shook her head. "There's no point in talking to you when you're like this."

"Like what?" he demanded, firing up.

"Spoiling for a fight."

Ron spluttered in indignation_. _

"I mean, it's not _our_ fault you're having a bad time with Quidditch -"

Ron turned practically crimson. "Right," he said, his voice quivering with anger and emotion, "Right, okay. I'm sorry to bother you with my stupid little problems. Obviously now you're in the _Slug Club _you're far too important to hang around with the little people anymore. I'll go and sit over there with Seamus so I don't pollute your special _air, _shall I?"

"Oh, don't be ridiculous!"

"Fine, I get it, I'm ridiculous."

"Harry, tell him -"

Harry looked thoroughly alarmed at being dragged into the argument. "What?"

"Oh, _forget it!" _Ron suddenly shouted, and he jumped to his feet and stormed off towards the portrait hole, kicking over his bag and frightening the life out of a passing first year as he did so.

There was a small silence.

"Er…" said Harry.

Hermione shot him an angry, challenging glare, as if to say, "And what's _your_ problem?"

"Maybe I'll just go to bed," he mumbled, getting quickly to his feet before she turned her wrath on him too.

* * *

**Saturday**

"I'm bored."

Ron and Harry were sprawled in a pair of armchairs under the common room window. It had been a long day out on the practice pitch, they'd just had a satisfyingly huge dinner, and neither of them felt much like moving.

"Me too," agreed Harry, stifling a yawn. "Although I think if Hermione were here she'd say only boring people get bored."

"Yeah, well… we're talking about someone who thinks _"Hogwarts: A History"_ is a fun read. I'm not sure she's _capable_ of being bored."

Harry laughed. "You might be right there."

"We could play chess," suggested Ron hopefully, but Harry shook his head.

"Nah, I haven't got the energy."

"For _chess?"_

Harry mimed straining to lift a chess piece. _"Too… heavy…"_

Ron laughed out loud. "Check-" He let his head loll onto his shoulder, feigned sleep, and let out a loud snore.

They both laughed.

"Well, if not chess..." asked Ron, "What shall we do?"

Harry considered for a moment. "Dunno. Nothing?"

"Nothing sounds good," agreed Ron.

"I've always thought it was rather underrated myself."

"Me too. There's a lot to be said for nothing."

"There is. It's absolutely one of the best ways of spending an evening."

The corners of Ron's mouth twitched slightly. "Yeah, it's right up there with a wank and a biscuit."

Harry let out a great shout of laughter, then shook his head and adopted a solemn expression.

"Ron?"

"Yeah?"

"Remind me never to eat any foodstuffs you offer me ever again."

Ron chuckled. "Talking of biscuits... do you fancy a cuppa?"

"No, thanks."

"Shame, I was hoping you might make me one."

Harry affected outrage. "Make your own bloody tea!"

Ron glanced across the other side of the room to where the tea things were kept and shook his head solemnly. "It's too far."

"That's the laziest thing I've ever heard."

"Says the man who was too exhausted to play chess a minute ago..."

"Yeah, but chess is _mentally_ exhausting, isn't it? _And_ it goes on for _hours_…"

"It does the way _you_ play, yeah…"

"Oi!" protested Harry, shoving him in the arm.

They both laughed.

Harry yawned again. "I actually don't think I can be bothered to go to bed." He patted the arm of the chair affectionately. "Maybe I'll just sleep here."

It was Ron's turn to stifle a yawn. "Don't," he groaned.

"Don't what?"

"Talk about sleep. I can barely keep my eyes open as it is."

"Go to bed, then."

"I can't go to bed at half past seven on a Saturday night. How sad would _that_ be? Anyway, I haven't got the energy to make a cup of _tea_; do you really think I've got the energy to climb six flights of stairs to the dorm?"

"Fine," grinned Harry, "I'll get Neville to come down and throw a blanket over you."

"I thought you were going to sleep here as well?"

Harry shook his head. "I've just remembered waking up in the summer and finding Crookshanks sitting on my chest with a dead sparrow. It might be six flights up but at least our bedroom has a _lock_."

Ron chuckled. "And Neville doesn't leave dead animals on your bed. Oh!" he exclaimed suddenly, pulling a face. _"Eurgh!"_

"What?" asked Harry, swivelling around to see what he was looking at.

"Ginny and Dean," said Ron, disgustedly. "Oh for God's sake, woman, put him down. I don't want to see that; I've just had dinner."

Harry shrugged. "Better him than Michael Corner."

"Well, yeah… better anyone than Michael Corner, he was an idiot. At least Dean's a laugh." He put a hand up to shield his eyes from the unwelcome sight. "Still doesn't mean I want to watch him snogging the face off my sister, though."

Harry laughed, took his glasses off, and offered them to his friend. "Try these. Should block out any unwanted snogging."

Ron took the glasses from him, pushed them up on his nose and squinted through them.

"Jesus, mate, you're practically _blind!"_

"I know," said Harry, dryly. "You're just one giant ginger blur at the moment."

Ron laughed. "So are you! Well, not ginger, obviously, but a giant blur."

He got to his feet, held his arms out in front of him for balance and took a few tentative, shuffling steps forward. "Tell me if I'm about to step on someone, will you?"

"You're about to step on someone."

"Who?"

"Me."

"Ha ha," said Ron, with a grin. "Seriously, your eyesight must be _terrible_. Any Death Eaters wanted to disarm you; all they'd need to do is knock your glasses off."

Harry laughed. "Better not tell Voldemort, then!"

They both laughed out loud.

"Here, Harry," said Ron, his eyes lighting up, "Who's this?"

He pushed the glasses down to the end of his nose and peered over them.

"Late _again,_ Potter?"

"Is that supposed to be a _Scottish_ accent?" joked Harry. "'Cos it sounds more like Irish to me…"

"Very funny," said Ron, in his normal voice. _"__T__here is a time and a place for humour, Mr Potter, and my classroom is not it."_

Harry hung his head in pretend shame. "Sorry, Professor. It's Ron's fault we're late; he insisted on having a second helping of bacon..."

Ron didn't blink. _"And if Mr Weasley jumped off a cliff, I suppose you'd follow him, would you? Pointing the blame at others is something I expect from Slytherin, Mr Potter, not the noble house of Gryffindor."_

Harry shook his head and laughed. "That's actually a little bit scary, mate. Have you been stalking her or something?"

Ron laughed too. "Nah, just sitting in her bloody lessons for five years!"

He grabbed a screwed-up ball of paper that someone had abandoned on a nearby desk, flattened it out, and held it up to Harry with an expression of the utmost horror.

"_Did you use this essay to mop something up, Mr Potter?"_

"Yes, Professor," deadpanned Harry, trying very hard not to laugh, "I'm afraid Weasley wet the bed again."

Ron's eyes widened in pretend outrage. "Right, you asked for it!"

He hurled the ball of paper at Harry, who caught it surprisingly deftly considering he wasn't wearing his glasses, jumped to his feet and attempted to stuff it down the back of Ron's jumper.

Ron let out a yell and dodged sideways, crashing straight into Hermione, who had come up behind him.

_"Careful!" _

"Whoops, sorry!" he laughed, "Didn't see you there!"

Hermione settled into a chair beside Harry, pulled out her books and stacked them carefully on the floor beside her, arranged her quills - one black for notes, one green for corrections - and only then did she look up and realise exactly _why_ he hadn't seen her approach. It was as though all the air had suddenly been sucked out of her lungs. Ron in glasses. _Ron_ in _glasses! _Oh _Lord_, that was a good look on him. If he picked up a book and started reading it too, it was going to be almost unbearable.

She watched him for several minutes, mesmerised. He was acting out some kind of joke or impression for Harry, who was almost helpless with laughter beside her, but she wasn't really listening. The strong lenses of Harry's glasses magnified his pale blue eyes and almost translucent eyelashes and she could not drag her gaze away from him. He was clearly enjoying himself immensely, and she allowed herself a small smile. It had been a while since she'd seen him in such a good mood. Her gaze drifted inevitably downwards to his mouth. She wondered what kissing him would be like. He'd never kissed anyone before, of course, and her own experience was limited to a couple of chaste kisses on the lips from Viktor, which hardly counted. She had never been kissed _properly_, with _passion_, by someone she wanted to kiss back. Would he be nervous, forceful, gentle, fevered, slow...? She wanted to know so badly it was almost like an ache inside her.

The sound of a loud tinkling female laugh behind her snapped her out of her reverie. She turned around to see Lavender Brown, her eyes fixed firmly on Ron, whispering something to Parvati behind her hand. "What's _she_ laughing at?" Hermione thought irritably. She felt rather as though she had missed something.

Unfortunately, Ron seemed also to have noticed Lavender's sudden burst of hilarity. He looked first bemused, then rather pleased, and finally he turned back to Harry and continued at a noticeably higher volume, slightly self-consciously, as though aware he was performing for an audience. Hermione watched him for several minutes with mounting irritation until finally she snapped.

"_Oh, stop showing off!"_

Ron was rather taken aback by this interruption. For a moment he thought he must have misheard, her outburst was so out of the blue. "Sorry?"

Hermione flushed. She hadn't meant to say that out loud. "You're not funny, you know."

"_Some_ people think I am," he muttered, with a half-shrug and a nervous glance in Lavender's direction that Hermione's eagle eyes did not miss.

"Yes, well," she said stiffly, _"That's_ hardly any great advertisement."

Ron squinted at her, rather disgruntled. "What's your problem?"

Hermione stared back at him for a moment then looked away. _You, _she wanted to say. _You're my problem. It's always you. Don't you know that by now? _

"Oh,_ nothing," _she said, in a tone that made it quite clear there was something she was very angry about indeed.

Ron watched her through narrowed eyes for a few moments before deciding he was not going to let whatever her problem was ruin the rest of his evening. He removed the glasses and held them out to her.

"Do you want to try them on, Hermione? They'd suit you, I reckon."

She glanced up in surprise, flushed and pleased at the unexpected compliment. "What - oh, I -"

"Yeah, I mean, you've always wanted to be a librarian, haven't you?"

Hermione felt as though she had been struck. Was that _still_ how he saw her? After all this time? My friend the spinster librarian? Did he have any idea how much it hurt her when he said things like that, even as a joke? Or any idea of how much she wanted _him_, of all people, to see her differently? She threw him her deathliest glare, and then returned her gaze to her book.

Ron laughed. "I'll take that as a no, then." He turned to Harry again, wiggling the glasses for effect. "What d'you reckon, Harry? Do they make me look more intelligent?"

"No pair of glasses in the _world_ could do that," said Hermione loudly, still rather stung by his librarian comment.

Ron ignored her. "Maybe I'll get loads of girls following me round now, thinking I'm Harry."

"Only if _they_ were the ones wearing glasses," muttered Hermione.

"Yeah," piped up Harry, "But you'd get bored of it pretty quickly. Having loads of giggling girls trailing around after you all day."

"I wouldn't complain."

"Even if the only reason they were interested was because you were famous and had a cool scar?"

Ron rubbed his forearm reflexively and shrugged. "Who cares _why _they're interested, as long as they _are? _I'll take what I can get, frankly. I mean, it's not like I'm fighting them off _now_, is it?"

He glanced quickly at Hermione, who had her head buried in a book as usual and didn't seem to be listening. He tried again.

"You know, Seamus said I'd get loads of interest from girls when I made Keeper, but I haven't noticed any flocking around, have you?"

Harry laughed. "Seamus talks a load of shit, though."

"Oh, I know," said Ron, hastily. "But you'd think I might get a _little_ bit of interest. Even one little love-struck first year or something."

"Got to aim high," muttered Hermione.

"Well, not all of us can pull International Quidditch players," said Ron sharply.

Hermione felt her face grow warm, but she didn't reply and she didn't dare look up. _That_ was not a subject she cared to pursue.

Ron glared at her bent head for a few moments, feeling thoroughly deflated. He'd been in a good mood five minutes ago, letting off some steam after a long and exhausting all-day practice session. No-one had the ability to spoil his fun more quickly and effectively than Hermione. He should leave it alone; she was obviously in a bad mood over something, and whatever he said would only make things worse. But her little comment about him not being funny really niggled. He wasn't good at Quidditch, he wasn't good at lessons… being funny was about all he _did_ have going for him, and apparently she didn't even think he had _that__. _

"What's the matter with you?" he asked, sourly. "One of your essays only get ninety-nine out of a hundred or something?"

She did not answer for a few moments, debating in her head whether to leave his question as a rhetorical one. But his remark had hit home. "Yes, because that's the only thing I care about, isn't it? Books and homework!"

"You said it, not me."

She bit her lip. "Says the boy whose sole topic of conversation these days is moaning about Quidditch."

She glanced up in time to see the look of hurt that crossed his face behind the glasses, and a jolt of guilt mixed with an even stronger jolt of sudden and very inconvenient desire coursed through her body.

"Take them off," she rasped.

"What?"

"The glasses. Take them off."

"Why?" he challenged at once.

_Because it's too damn distracting, _she thought.

"Because Harry needs them to do his homework." She turned a page of her book and underlined something at random. "And besides, you look completely _ridiculous_ in them. That's probably why Lavender was laughing," she added, scornfully.

Ron flushed. He pushed Harry's glasses up on his nose self-consciously. He couldn't take them off now; he couldn't let her know it bothered him. Although all he wanted to do was wrench them from his face and hurl them across the room.

"I thought you _liked _the intellectual look," he joked weakly.

"Not on _you," _she snapped back. "Anyway, when did I say that?"

He gave what he hoped was an airy shrug. "I dunno. Just seemed like the sort of thing you'd go for."

"Well, it isn't," she retorted, annoyed. Really, how he could be so _utterly_ clueless?

Ron changed tack immediately. "No, I suppose you prefer the muscle-bound idiot types, don't you?"

Hermione opened her mouth and closed it again. "Well, one out of two is right," she muttered, turning away from him lest her expression give her away.

"What, does Krum secretly write poetry or something?" scoffed Ron, completely missing the veiled reference to himself. "Does he send you _love letters?" _He managed to invest the phrase with the kind of scorn he usually reserved for Draco Malfoy.

She gave him a withering look. "I'm not having this conversation with you again, Ron. I've told you a hundred times; we're just _pen pals_. Do you think that somehow if you keep pestering me about it, I'm suddenly going to give in and confess?"

"Confess what?" demanded Ron at once. "What have you got to confess?"

She threw her hands up in despair. "Oh, my God! _Nothing! _That's exactly the _point! _Why don't you _listen?"_

"Well, why did you say _confess_ then?"

"It's called _irony_, Ronald. I would have thought that was a concept even _you_ could recognise."

Ron reddened. "Oh, you mean it was a _joke?" _he fired back. "Oh yeah, I know what one of _those_ is. I just didn't think _you_ did."

"So, Ron," interjected Harry hurriedly, feeling as though an intervention of some sort was called for before this descended into actual violence, "I was talking to Alicia earlier, about a new team strategy, and -"

"And what's _that _supposed to mean?" Hermione demanded, ignoring him.

Ron's voice wavered slightly, but he stood his ground.

"You don't _know?" _he asked, with an incredulous little laugh. "I thought you were supposed to be the clever one!"

* * *

Across the room Dean turned to Ginny beside him on the sofa with a disbelieving shake of the head.

"God, they're always arguing, those two. Someone should just bang their bloody heads together."

"Or their lips," muttered Ginny, without looking up from her exam revision.

Dean laughed out loud. "You're joking, right?"

Ginny lifted her head, suddenly inexplicably annoyed. "Can't you see it?"

"See what? I can see them _shouting_ at each other like they do _every single bloody day, _if that's what you mean."

She sighed. "And why do you think that is?"

"Well, it's - it's -" He shrugged helplessly. "Some people just don't get on, I suppose."

"Hmm," said Ginny. "And yet they still spend all their time together..."

"Maybe they just like arguing, then. Oh, _come_ on, Gin, they'd be the worst couple _ever!" _

Ginny narrowed her eyes at him. "You think so?"

Dean laughed. "Yeah, I do. I mean, it's _obvious_, isn't it?"

She looked down at her book and back up at him again. "Well, _I_ think it's obvious, yes," she said, levelly.

_Just not in the way you mean_.

Dean frowned uncertainly and glanced across the room again. Ginny followed his gaze. Hermione was now gesticulating angrily at Ron about something.

"Anyway," said Dean, with the air of having won the point, "Ron hasn't said anything."

Ginny let out a snort of disbelieving laughter. "Oh, well, if _Ron_ hasn't said anything!"

Dean shrugged. Apparently he remained unconvinced. "I mean, _we_ don't argue like that, do we? It's not normal!"

"Mm," said Ginny wryly. "What's normal?"

But something had clicked into place. She liked Dean a lot. He was very laid-back and relaxed, which was probably what she needed at the moment with the twin stresses of Quidditch and OWLs to worry about. And no, they didn't argue like that. But then, they didn't do _anything_ like that, with the passion that her friend and brother put into arguing. She smiled slightly. If they ever managed to sort themselves out and get together, it would make Fred and George's farewell firework display look like a damp squib. Although, she thought with a sigh, as the sound of their angry voices drifted across the room, it didn't look as though it was going to happen any time soon.

* * *

"_And_ you nearly knocked my head off!"

"Not on purpose!"

"That's not the point! You could have injured someone!"

"I'm only messing around!"

"Yes, you always _are_, aren't you? Haven't you got any homework to do?"

Ron rolled his eyes at the predictability of this old chestnut. "_Yeah,_" he said testily, "But I've just spent six hours at Quidditch practice being _rained_ _on_ and _shouted_ _at_" - beside him Harry flinched but Ron did not seem to notice what he had said - "so excuse me for not wanting to spend the rest of the night with my head in a book. I know it's probably a big treat for you, but _some_ of us don't consider homework _fun_."

Hermione opened her mouth and closed it again, rather stung. They glared at each other.

Ron ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "Look, can you just... shut up with the nagging, please? I've had a shit day, and I don't need it."

"I was _not _nagging," she bristled, offended. "I was merely _asking_ if you had any homework -"

"And I told you; _yes_, I _do_, but I'm not going to do it _tonight_. Is that alright with you? Do I need written permission from Professor Granger now?"

_"No..."_

"Fine, so how about you get on with _your_ essay and leave me alone?"

They glared at each other for a few moments, then - with outward calm but inner boiling fury - Hermione closed her book, put it down on the arm of the chair beside her and got to her feet.

"Give Harry his glasses back," she demanded, holding her hand out for them.

Ron folded his arms defiantly. "What's it got to do with you?"

"I don't mind," piped up Harry hurriedly, hoping to avert the full-blown war that seemed to be brewing.

"There, you see? _Harry_ doesn't mind -"

_"Give him back his glasses!" s_he suddenly shrieked, shoving him in the chest and attempting to wrench them from his grasp. For a few moments they wrestled foolishly with the glasses before Ron realised what they were doing and let go hurriedly, feeling very flustered. He was rather stunned at having a physical fight with Hermione. It was the sort of thing that happened with his sister. Not _her_. She wasn't like that.

"There you go, Harry!" she said breathlessly, thrusting his glasses practically into his face. "Ron's finished _playing_ with them now!"

Harry took them rather gingerly, and she grabbed her bag from the floor, stuffed her books and quills angrily into it, and stalked off to her dorm with head held high, pointedly refusing to look at either of them.

Ron and Harry exchanged bemused shrugs in the silence that followed this little outburst. Ron stood there for a few moments, not quite sure what had just happened, then realised that all the people sitting around them had stopped talking and were watching the Ron and Hermione show with great interest. They all looked away hurriedly when they realised they'd been spotted and pretended to be deep in conversation. He blinked at them, then sat back down again quickly and slumped as low as he could in his chair, his face burning.

"So, Harry... you were saying something about a new team strategy?"

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_Ah, unresolved sexual tension and jealousy; a lethal combination! _

_This chapter was originally much longer but I split it into two parts - so you wouldn't have to wait even longer for an update, but also because it just works better that way. You'll be pleased to hear this means there'll be another update in a couple of weeks time. I know, I know, you wait three months for a chapter and then two come along at once. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed Chapter 17 and please let me know what you thought by leaving me a review! Thank you!_

_Pb x_


	18. Chapter 18: Jam

_Author's Note:_

_Well, I promised you another chapter in 2 weeks, and here it is, 14 days and 10 hours later. You get a special speedy update because the number of reviews for this story hit 900! Woo! Next stop: 1,000! _

_Thank you for all your lovely reviews, and hope you enjoy._

_Pb x_

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen: Jam**

_Name: R. Weasley_

_House: Gryffindor_

_Year: 6_

_Subject: Potions _

_Teacher: Professor Slughorn_

_Medicinal Plants And Their Use In Medieval Potion-Making_

_Agrimony, also known as Sticklewort or Cockeburr, is a member of the Rose family of plants. It produces small, spiky yellow flowers which are in bloom from June to September. In medieval times it was mixed with pounded frogs and human blood to form a remedy for internal bleeding._

He paused, his quill hovering uncertainly over the page. _Pounded frogs?_ Could that be right? He checked his notes again. Well, it certainly _looked_ like pounded frogs. And he'd mixed potions with considerably more disgusting ingredients in his time. Hair of Crabbe, for one.

He looked up to see what the others were doing. Hermione was curled up in the armchair opposite, scribbling furiously, and beside him Harry was bent over a heavy textbook, his brow furrowed in concentration. Ron's gaze drifted downwards to Hermione's bare legs. Her skirt had ridden up slightly revealing about an inch of thigh. Not much, but enough to attract his interest. He remembered what Seamus had said about girls' thighs - the pearly gates to Heaven, he called them - and felt himself blushing at the thought. _Concentrate, Weasley_, he told himself sternly. _Hermione's thighs will still be there tomorrow, but you might not be if you don't finish this bloody essay. _He glanced at his watch and groaned. Twenty past ten. He really needed to get this finished tonight, or he'd still be writing it at breakfast. _Again_.

Fuck it, pounded frogs it was. He was too tired to rewrite the essay, and it was too late to go to the library and look it up. He could ask Hermione, of course, but that would probably result in a long lecture and he really just wanted to finish the damn thing so he could go to bed. He would look really stupid if it was wrong, but he doubted the Professor would even notice. Snape would have made him read it out in front of the class just to humiliate him; Slughorn barely even registered his existence. He was only interested in the best students. The rest of them might as well bring pillows to his lessons and use the opportunity to catch up on some sleep.

_Sleep..._

He rubbed his face vigorously to wake himself up. This was no good. He needed something to help him concentrate. Sod medieval plants, he needed _sugar._

"Does anyone fancy some cocoa?" he asked aloud.

_"Yes!" _said Harry at once, clearly grateful for the distraction.

"Yes, please," said Hermione, bestowing one of her best smiles on Ron and causing a not unpleasant swooping sensation in his stomach. He beamed back at her, then realised he was basically staring at her like an idiot, and hurried off before she started to wonder why.

As he waited for the kettle to boil he thought of what Seamus had asked him last week. "Are you an arse, a tit, or a leg man?" Well, they were _all_ good, weren't they? Why did he have to decide? It wasn't about just one thing, it was the complete package. Legs, tits, arse, even her bloody _elbows_ were strangely sexy. Lately he'd been thinking a lot more about her lips too, wondering what it would be like to kiss her. Watching other people kissing and trying to see where the blokes put their hands. The thought of putting his hands on any part of Hermione's body made his head reel. The thought of her _letting_ him, kissing him back, pressing her body against his, wanting it just as he much as he did… well, that was almost beyond his imagining. _Almost..._

Hermione glanced up as he set the mugs of cocoa carefully down on the coffee table in front of her, and - not for the first time - Ron was very grateful she couldn't read his mind. He picked up the little plate of ginger biscuits he'd brought too and offered them to her.

"Biscuit, Hermione?"

"Thank you," she said gratefully, taking one.

"Harry? Biscuit?"

"No, thanks," joked Harry, deadpan. "I know where they've been."

There was a short silence, then the boys both burst out laughing.

Hermione frowned and took the biscuit away from her mouth again. "What do you mean; you know where they've been?"

Harry shook his head. "Nothing. It's a joke, that's all."

She raised a sceptical eyebrow.

"Ask Ron," he grinned.

"Thanks, mate," said Ron, dryly. "Stab me in the back, why don't you?"

"Will someone please explain the joke?" she demanded.

Ron shook his head. "I really can't," he said, with an apologetic shrug.

"Well, if you don't _want_ to -"

"It's not that I don't _want_ to... it's… well… it's dirty," he finished, lamely.

She flushed. "Oh."

"One of Seamus's," he said quickly. "You honestly don't want to know."

"In that case," she said vehemently, "I don't think I _do_."

She put the biscuit back on the plate and returned to her essay, and the boys exchanged amused but relieved grins, which she pretended not to see.

Still grinning, Ron dunked a biscuit in his cocoa, crammed it into his mouth, and picked up his Potions notes again. There was one particular word that no matter how many times he read it, he couldn't make sense of. They were his own bleedin' notes! How could he have no idea what the word might be? It definitely began with a B, but beyond that he had no idea. Was there an S in there somewhere? Or was it a T? Oh, this was _hopeless!_

"Here, Harry," he said, leaning across to show him the page, "Can you read this?"

Harry looked where he was pointing. For almost a full minute he squinted at the page before shaking his head. "No idea, sorry. Why don't you ask Hermione? She can usually read your handwriting."

Hermione held out her hand without looking up and Ron handed it over reluctantly.

"Helleborine," she said after the briefest of cursory glances, and handed it straight back to him.

Harry let out an incredulous laugh. "How the hell did you know that? It just looks like hieroglyphics to me!"

She shrugged. "Practice. Well, that and I pay attention in Potions…" she added, pointedly.

"Well, if you ever need a Saturday job, I think Ron needs a translator."

"My writing's not _that_ bad," said Ron, indignantly.

"It sort of _is_," grinned Harry. "I mean, if _you_ can't read it…"

"Only because I didn't know the word," protested Ron. "I had to write it down tonetically."

There was a short silence. The corners of Hermione's mouth twitched slightly.

"Phonetically," said Ron, turning rapidly crimson. "Oh, shut up."

"Well, to be fair, it _could_ have been tonetically. Tone means the _sound_ of something, so if you consider it purely in terms of -"

"Hermione?"

"Yes?"

"We don't care."

It was Hermione's turn to flush crimson. "Fine!" she retorted hotly, "Translate your own notes next time!"

_"Hi!"_

They all glanced up at the unexpected interruption. To no-one's delight, it was Cormac McLaggen. Harry nodded a curt acknowledgement but didn't say hello, Ron glared at him as though McLaggen had said something rude about his mother, and Hermione tried to rearrange her expression into a welcoming but not _too_ welcoming smile.

"Oh, hello, Cormac. How are you?"

"Yeah, great. Looking forward to Old Sluggy's party."

Ron gave a derisive snort, which she pretended not to notice.

"You going? Should be fun."

"I'm not sure," she said evasively, with half a glance at Ron. "I'm quite busy this week."

McLaggen nodded. "What about you, Potter?"

"Can't," said Harry at once. "Got Quidditch practice that night."

"Oh, yeah," said Cormac, "How's that going?"

There was a short silence, which unfortunately spoke volumes. Ron suddenly became very interested in his shoes.

"Er… yeah," said Harry, unconvincingly. "Pretty good."

"Great!" said Cormac. "Well, I'm always available if you ever need any advice. Got a lot of ideas you might find useful."

"Thanks," said Harry, dryly, "I'll bear it in mind."

"Great!" said Cormac again. "I'll see you at the party then, Granger."

"Er… yes," she said, rather flustered. Had he not heard her say she was busy this week? "Maybe."

"Great!" He turned on his best smile, nodded at Harry, and carried on his way. He had not so much as looked at Ron once.

"See you at the _party_, Granger," Ron muttered, in a mocking approximation of McLaggen's languid public-schoolboy drawl.

Hermione raised a disapproving eyebrow, which only enraged him even more.

_"What?" _he demanded furiously, "He's an _idiot!"_

"Why don't you say that a little louder, Ronald, I don't think he heard."

"I don't care if he hears me or not!"

"You should," said Harry, mildly, "He's massive."

"Yeah, a massive _wanker,_" flashed back Ron.

They both laughed, but Hermione looked reproachful.

"Well, he _is_," he said defensively.

"He really is, Hermione," agreed Harry, grinning.

"Oh, don't _encourage_ him, for heaven's sake!"

Harry laughed but Ron surveyed her through narrowed eyes. "I don't know why _you're_ defending him all of a sudden."

"I'm not defending him -"

"Sounds like it."

"Just because I choose not to insult someone within their earshot -"

"Oh, is _that_ the reason?"

"What other reason would there be?"

"You tell me."

Harry suddenly scraped back his chair, stood up and announced rather abruptly that he was going to bed. Somewhat taken aback, they mumbled their goodnights and watched him disappear up the stairs to the dorm. The moment he was out of sight Hermione turned furiously on Ron again.

"_Now _look what you've done!"

"What _I've_ done?"

"You know he doesn't like it when we argue!"

"And that's _my_ fault, is it?"

"If you weren't in such a foul mood -"

"I wasn't until that pompous prick showed up!"

"Yes, and don't you make it obvious -"

_"Hi!"_

They both glanced up sharply and Hermione's heart sank. McLaggen had returned. He was wearing a tracksuit and trainers and clutching a roll of parchment under his arm. This time she did not reply, just waited for him to say whatever it was he had come to say.

"Potter not around?"

She shook her head. "No, he's gone to bed."

He looked disappointed. "Right. Hmm. I was sort of hoping to have a word with him."

Hermione shrugged. "Sorry."

McLaggen still did not move. He unrolled the parchment he was holding and showed it to her. "I jotted down a few ideas. You know, team formations, game plays… thought he might like to see them."

Hermione thought this extremely unlikely, but she was still annoyed with Harry for siding with Ron earlier and for weaselling out of going to the party. "I'm sure he'd love to," she said, sweetly. "I tell you what; he's got a free period after breakfast. He'll have plenty of time to discuss your ideas then."

McLaggen looked highly delighted by this suggestion. "Great idea!" he beamed. "Thanks!"

He continued to stand there grinning at her. It was rather unnerving.

"Well, goodnight," said Ron, loudly, "Thanks for coming."

McLaggen did not seem to hear him. He gestured down at his trainer-clad feet and then towards the portrait hole. "I'm just off for a run."

Hermione had nothing to say to this. "Oh. Er…"

"Healthy body, healthy mind, you know what they say!"

Behind him Ron faked a particularly unpleasant coughing fit, like Crookshanks with a furball.

"Not that I don't know how to have a good time, if you know what I mean!"

He gave her a suggestive little wink which she was very glad Ron could not see.

"Yeah, I like to keep fit. You like sports, Granger?"

"Umm... well, I'm more of a supporter, to be honest."

"_Riiight_. Big Gryffindor fan, I bet!"

"Well, I have a lot of friends on the team..."

"'Course you do, 'course you do."

There was a short, rather awkward silence.

"So I'll see you on Wednesday, then?"

She could not be bothered to explain again. "Yes, I expect so."

"Great! Look forward to it!"

He jogged off in the direction of the door and this time Ron managed to keep from exploding until he had actually left the room.

_"Merlin's cock!"_

"Ronald!" she hissed, "There are _kids_ in here!"

"He is _such_ a tosser!"

"I'm not disagreeing with you."

"Thinks he's better than everyone else just because his uncle's mates with Slughorn."

"I know. It's annoying."

"I'm surprised he's not in Slytherin, to be honest. The Sorting Hat must have been having an off-day when it put _him_ in Gryffindor. As if Harry would want an idiot like _him_ on the team!"

Hermione let out a small sigh and Ron's eyes narrowed in suspicion. _"What?"_

She shook her head. "I didn't say anything."

He watched her for a few moments uncertainly, then resumed his rant as though she hadn't spoken. "Anyway, he hasn't got the build for a Keeper. He'd make a much better Beater, I reckon. If you can imagine a gorilla on a broomstick, ha ha!"

No answer. His smile faded to a frown.

"He sort of looks a bit like Krum, don't you think?"

"Umm," said Hermione, rifling through her bag in search of a non-existent something. "Umm… not really, no."

"He does a _bit_," persisted Ron.

"Viktor's a lot darker..."

"They've got the same sort of build, though."

"I suppose so," she said vaguely, "I haven't really noticed."

"And of course, they're both Quidditch players..."

"So are you," she fired back, reddening. "So's Harry. So's _Ginny_, for that matter. What's your point?"

He gave a violent shrug. Bloody McLaggen. It was all very well Harry deliberately scheduling practice sessions on the same nights as the parties so he didn't have to go (and almost certainly so Ron didn't feel left out, which made him feel both pathetically grateful and - well, just plain pathetic), but that also meant she'd be there on her _own_. At least if Harry or Ginny were there too he'd feel reassured that she wasn't spending the evening with McLaggen's huge hairy hand on her arse. On her own she was a sitting duck for any smooth talking charmer that wanted to try it on. She might be the smartest girl in school, but she was a complete _idiot_ about blokes. Always thought they were just being friendly, always saw the best in people, couldn't see they were just taking advantage of how trusting she was. Blind, completely _blind_. Why else would a barely literate monkey like Krum want to be her pen-pal other than waiting until she was legal (which, he reminded himself with a shiver, as of last month, she _was_) so he could pounce? And why else would that git McLaggen be so interested in whether she was going to the party or not? It wasn't because he wanted to talk to her about _books_, was it? At least Krum could actually play Quidditch, McLaggen was just a twat.

"Yeah, he's sort of like a reserve-team Krum, if you think about it..."

He shot her a quick sideways glance to check her reaction, but she did not seem to have heard. He picked up his now cold cup of cocoa and put it down again.

"Are you still writing to him?"

Hermione glanced up, surprised at being asked such a direct question. She debated for a moment whether to tell the truth or not.

"He wrote to me over the summer," she admitted finally.

"Did he? Right. So what did he have to say for himself?"

"Just asking how I was, that kind of thing."

Ron made a sceptical noise in his throat. "Did you write back?"

"Of course. It's only polite."

Ron made the noise again. _"Of course."_ He drummed his fingers impatiently on the arm of the chair, keeping his eyes fixed on her the whole time. "So what did you say to him?"

Hermione bit her lip. "I don't know, I can't remember _exactly_ -"

_"You can't remember?" _he crowed in disbelief.

"Funnily enough I don't make copies of every letter I ever _send_ purely in case _you_ decide to ask me about it three months later!"

Ron flushed. "I just can't see what you'd have to talk about. Doesn't he bore you rigid banging on about Quidditch all the time?"

"No, but then I've got _you_ for that, haven't I?"

Ron went even redder. "Right," he said, "Thanks."

Hermione regretted her choice of words at once. "You were the one who brought it up," she said defensively. "Look, I can't remember what I wrote to Viktor, it was probably just stuff about our exams and plans for the holidays. I really don't understand why it bothers you so much."

"Don't you," muttered Ron.

"No. I don't." She leaned back in her chair and folded her arms across her chest. "Why don't you enlighten me?"

They looked at each other. The silence seemed to stretch on forever. Hermione felt sure he must be able to hear her heart beating from five feet away, it was so loud.

"Ron -"

"I just don't like him."

Hermione gave a mirthless little laugh and shook her head. "Well, if that's the best you can do..."

She stood up and starting throwing her things into her bag with obvious annoyance.

"Oh, are you going to bed?" he asked, surprised.

"Looks like it, doesn't it?" she retorted.

Ron flinched but said nothing.

With a last parting look of disdain she hoisted her bag over her shoulder and headed for the stairs.

"Good night!" he called after her, but she did not reply. He watched her until she was out of sight, then picked up a cushion, pressed it to his face, and let out a muffled yell of frustration.

"Bloody bloody bastard _hell!"_

* * *

Hermione glanced up from her book as Ron threw himself into the armchair opposite her. He was wearing his Quidditch robes and looked rather pale.

"Alright?"

"Yep," he said, shortly.

"Ready for Quidditch practice?"

"Yep."

"Aren't you a bit early?"

A pause. "Yep."

Clearly, he was not in the mood to discuss it. She shrugged, and returned her gaze to her book. After a minute he started drumming his fingers nervously on the arm of the chair.

"Ron..."

"Yeah?"

"That's sort of annoying."

He stared down at his hand as though he hadn't realised he was doing it. "Sorry."

"It's fine. I should probably go and get ready anyway."

"Ready for what?"

"Slughorn's party, of course."

"That's _tonight?" _exclaimed Ron, thunderstruck.

_"Ye-es_. Harry deliberately scheduled your practice session for the same night so he wouldn't have to go, remember?"

"But... I thought you weren't going!"

She reddened. "When did I say that?"

"You said you weren't that bothered," he told her accusingly, "You said you didn't want to go."

Hermione frowned. To be honest, they'd had this conversation so many times in the last few days she wasn't sure herself what she had or hadn't said.

"Well..." she said, uncertainly, "I _am_ going, so..."

"_Why?"_

"Why not?" she countered. "It's a _party. _It might be fun_." _

Ron made a face, as though he expected it to be as much fun as a case of dragon pox, and she felt herself get annoyed all over again.

"Look, I'm only going to be polite, and because it's always interesting to meet new people -"

"Like who?" he demanded at once.

"Well, _I_ don't know, do I? I haven't _met_ them yet!"

Ron's shoulders slumped. He didn't like the sound of this at all. Why did she need new friends, anyway? What was wrong with the ones she already had?

"Anyway," said Hermione, putting her book away and starting to get to her feet, "I need to go and get ready, so…"

_"Now? _But it doesn't start 'til eight!"

"Yes, but I need to change my clothes and sort out my hair..." - she felt her face heat up for some reason - "You know, make myself look nice."

"Sounds like a lot of effort for a party you're not even that bothered about," said Ron hotly.

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "You almost sound like you're jealous."

_"What?" _exclaimed Ron, with an incredulous laugh. "You're _joking_, right? Why would I be _jealous? _Ooh, spending my free time hanging out with one of the teachers and that tosser McLaggen… yeah, it sounds like a _great_ night out. Jesus, I'd rather spend the evening cleaning the trophy cabinet without magic again!"

"Well, happily for you," she retorted, "You're not _invited_. So you can spend your evening doing whatever you want. _I,_ on the other hand, have a _party_ to go to."

Ron threw his arms up in a gesture of defeat. "Fine! I couldn't give a toss either way _what_ you do. If you want to go, go. Just don't come round here tomorrow telling me all the gory details, 'cos I'm not interested."

_"Hah!"_

He frowned. "What's _that _supposed to mean?"

"Well, for someone who's not interested, you certainly seem to like bringing up the subject! Why _is _that, I wonder?"

_"What?"_ exclaimed Ron, thoroughly outraged. "I do _not!"_

"Yes, you do! All the time!"

"Bollocks."

"Oh, what a brilliant comeback! Yes, that's really put me in my place, hasn't it?"

Ron bit his lip. There wasn't much he could say to that.

"_Look,"_ she said, in what she hoped was a conciliatory tone, "It's not _my_ fault you weren't invited -"

_"That's not what it's about!"_

"What _is_ it about, then?"

Ron opened his mouth and closed it again soundlessly.

It's about you going off and meeting other people, he thought, savagely. It's about you meeting a whole load of newer, smarter, _better_ friends who I can't possibly compete with. Boys you can talk to about _books_ and stuff. It's about you and Harry going to things together, without me. It's about my brilliant little sister not only being a thousand times better at Quidditch than I am, but already on to her second boyfriend when I haven't even _kissed_ anyone and aren't even _close_. And getting invited to parties with _my _friends, while I'm so invisible standing next to my two brilliant best friends that Slughorn can't even remember my sodding _name_. And Seamus spent half the summer with his tongue down some girl's throat, and Harry's Quidditch Captain, and you're swanning off to parties where I know for _certain_ that at least one undeserving fuckwit is going to spend the evening trying to get in your knickers.

"_Well?"_ she demanded.

"Nothing," he muttered, and looked away from her, down at his shoes.

Hermione tried again. "Look, it's just a small party for a handful of select people -"

She regretted her choice of word immediately, as Ron's eyes flashed in a mixture of triumph and fury.

_"Select _people!" he scoffed. "Right. Brilliant. What does that make me, then?"

"It doesn't make you anything -"

"Yeah, that sounds about right. I tell you what, why don't you and your oh-so-special _select_ little friends just fuck off to your stupid little party like you obviously want to?"

"Fine, well, if that's how you feel, I will!"

"Fine, go, then."

"You're being completely pathetic, you know that?"

"Whatever you say. I'm sure you're right. You always are."

She threw up her hands in frustration. "Fine! You know what? I haven't got time for this. I've got a _party_ to go to."

"Have a _brilliant_ time," said Ron, sarcastically.

"Thanks, I will. Have a _great _time at Quidditch practice."

And, feeling an odd mix of triumph and disappointment, she turned on her heel and stalked up to her room to get ready for a party she wasn't even sure she wanted to go to in the first place.

Ron watched her go, his anger ebbing away rapidly. He should have said, "You already look nice", that's what he… When she said, "I need to make myself look nice", he should have said she _already_ looked nice. He should have told her that she didn't need to dress up to get a bloke's attention, because if he wasn't interested in her without all that stuff, then he wasn't worth it. And he wasn't _worthy _of her, either, but then no-one was, as far as Ron was concerned.

He swore silently to himself. He should have said lots of things. He should have told her that he _liked_ her mad hair. He should have told her he thought it was sexy when it was all windswept and dishevelled. Which he _did_, but she would never believe that. He should have told her that the sexiest thing he'd ever seen in his life was Hermione in the kitchen at the Burrow in cloud-print pyjamas, fluffy slippers and birds nest hair, eating hot buttered toast and laughing at one of his stupid jokes. Yes, even sexier than that time he bumped into her on the landing in the middle of the night and she was only wearing knickers and a vest. Mainly because he'd been too embarrassed to actually _look_ at her then, whereas Hermione at the breakfast table he could stare at as long as he liked, and she had absolutely no idea that he was wondering whether, if he kissed her, she would taste of jam.

"Alright, mate?" said Harry heartily, arriving behind him and clapping his friend enthusiastically on the shoulder. "Ready for practice?"

Ron let out a long sigh. "_Come_ on, then," he said, climbing heavily to his feet. "Might as well get it over with."

"That's the spirit," muttered Harry. He had an unpleasant feeling this wasn't going to be one of Ron's better practices.

* * *

Hermione sat down heavily on the edge of her bed and pulled her hair loose from the elastic band that was holding it in place. It had not been a fun evening. She had spent the first twenty minutes laughing slightly too loudly at one of Slughorn's interminable anecdotes and fielding questions about Harry's whereabouts, which was particularly galling as it was thanks to him she was there on her own in the first place.

After that she was cornered by Cormac McLaggen, who insisted on going into tedious detail about his brilliant ideas for the Quidditch team, listing all the reasons he believed he would make a better Keeper than Ron ("You see, Weasley's trouble is he's inconsistent…"), and generally reminding her why she had hexed him at Keeper trials. He was arrogant, rude, vain, boring, and continued to refer to her as "Granger" all evening, as though she was one of his rugby mates. She had waited until he had gone to get a drink and then slipped out, not even caring if he wondered where she had gone. If he asked - which she doubted he would as he hadn't expressed any interest in her for the rest of the evening - she would just say she had a headache.

She was angry with Harry for leaving her to face the party on her own and making her feel like his personal secretary, with herself for letting Ron get to her and ruining her evening, but most of all with Ron. Why _should_ he get a say in where she went and who she spent her time with? It wasn't _her_ fault he hadn't been invited, was it? And it wasn't her fault he was having such a bad time with Quidditch, either. And yet she couldn't help feeling guilty for getting invited when he wasn't, and even for wanting to go in the first place, although to be honest she wasn't sure she _had_ wanted to go until he kicked up a fuss about it, and _oh, God_, how had yet another thing in her life become about _him?_

She buried her face in her hands and let out a strangled scream. Across the room Lavender and Parvati, who were lying together across Lavender's bed reading a Muggle magazine, exchanged pointed glances and sniggered.

"Keith's my favourite,_" _enthused Lavender, returning to the magazine. "He's _so_ cute!"

"I like Shane," said Parvati, "It's the shaved eyebrow. I love a bad boy!"

They both giggled.

"Keith's got nicer hair, though."

"Shane's got lovely blue eyes."

"So has Keith!" protested Lavender. She let out a small sigh. "They've _all _got lovely blue eyes..."

"They have," agreed Parvati. "Blue eyes are cute."

"_So_ cute…" sighed Lavender, dreamily.

Hermione glanced at her watch and groaned. It wasn't even half past nine! The team would be back from practice soon. The last thing she wanted was to bump into Ron again and be subjected to yet another barrage of questions about Cormac McLaggen, but she didn't want to have to sit here listening to Lavender and Parvati giggling about boys either.

"It's not fair," sighed Lavender. "Why aren't there any cute Irish boys at Hogwarts?"

"What about Seamus?" suggested Parvati, slyly.

Lavender made a face. "Oh, _no!"_

"Don't you think he's cute?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. Didn't they know any other adjectives?

"No! Don't be disgusting!"

"He fancies you."

Lavender giggled. "Oh, Par, he doesn't!"

"He's always staring at you."

"Well, who wouldn't?" pouted Lavender, tossing her long fair hair over her shoulder, "I mean, look at me; I'm _gorgeous!"_

They broke into fresh peals of laughter and Hermione sighed, picked up a book from her bedside table, and headed downstairs.

* * *

Ginny arrived first, the door banging back so hard against the wall it made Hermione and quite a few other people jump. She strode across the room towards the stairs, her expression furious, her wet hair streaming behind her and her robes spattered with mud.

_"Don't ask!" _she snapped at Hermione without even slowing down. "If I even hear his _name_, I swear, I'll -"

She was gone before Hermione could even open her mouth.

A few minutes later the door opened again and in walked first Harry and then Ron, both just as wet and muddy as Ginny and clearly mid-argument, judging by their body language. Harry was gesticulating angrily, obviously upset about something, and Ron was just standing there mutely, face set, shoulders slumped in misery, wet hair plastered to his skull. After a few minutes Harry threw up his arms in disgust and stormed upstairs, no doubt to get out of his wet clothes and have a hot bath. Hermione returned her gaze to Ron, who hadn't moved. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity just staring dejectedly at the floor, then lifted his head and looked directly at Hermione. She offered a sympathetic smile but he just stared right through her for a moment, then turned around and left the room again. Hermione frowned. Apparently she wasn't the only one who had not had a fun evening.

Harry came back downstairs half an hour later, slumped into the seat opposite her and let out a long sigh. He had dried his hair and changed back into his normal clothes.

"Have you seen Ron?"

"I'm not sure," she said evasively. "Why?"

Another sigh. "I think I owe him an apology."

"What for?"

"Well... I had a bit of a go at him earlier. You know, about -"

"Quidditch," she finished for him, and he forced the thinnest of smiles.

"Yeah."

"Is he still playing badly?"

Harry let out a short bark of laughter. "Honestly?"

"Oh, dear."

"I mean, I've tried everything - shouting, encouragement, threats, bribery, _everything_, and nothing seems to make any difference. It's like he's _decided_ he's rubbish, and so he _is_. Do you know what I mean?"

She nodded. That was surprisingly astute for Harry.

"To be honest," Harry went on, rubbing his temples wearily, "I'm really fed up with him lately. I'm Captain and people already think Ron's only on the team because he's friends with me. If he carries on playing the way he has been lately, it's my neck on the line too. I really want to make a go of this, being Quidditch Captain, and I don't want to be constantly having a go at him, but nothing seems to help. If we lose the first match and it's because of him, I'm gonna have a really hard time being polite to him. The last thing I want is for this to ruin our friendship, but I'm sick of him not being able to pull himself out of it. Pull yourself together! You _know_ you can do this! You did it _last_ year! What's _wrong_ with you?"

They sat there for a few minutes not knowing what to say, then Harry sighed and shook his head.

"I'm going to bed. If you see him - well..." He gave a helpless shrug.

"'Night," said Hermione.

"'Night."

He sloped off upstairs, and Hermione stayed sitting at her desk a while longer reading her book and waiting for Ron to return. Gradually the common room thinned out until she was the last person left. Just as she was debating whether to give up and go to bed, the door swung open, she glanced up, and their eyes met across the empty room. Ron hoisted an unconvincing smile on his face and came and sat down opposite her, his knees bumping hers under the table. He reached across and picked up her book, looked at the cover, put it down again, then leant back in the chair and surveyed her for a few moments.

"You're up late."

"So are you," she countered at once.

"Yeah, well..." He looked away, and seemed distracted by something on the other side of the room. Hermione followed his gaze, but there was nothing there.

"So where have you been?"

A shrug. "Nowhere."

"Nowhere?"

"I fancied a walk."

He shifted slightly in his chair and his knees bumped hers again.

"Feel better?"

Ron looked up sharply. "Been talking to Harry, have you?"

"No! Well - yes, but -"

"Huh."

"No, listen, he was looking for you. He wanted to apologise but you weren't here."

He laughed bitterly. "_He_ wanted to apologise? He's not the one who -"

He tailed off and slumped forward over the desk, burying his face in his crossed arms and letting out a strangled moan of frustration. She reached out a tentative hand, as if to stroke his hair, but then pulled it back quickly.

"I'm rubbish, Hermione," he mumbled into the desk.

"I'm sure that's not true," she said, bracingly.

"It _is_ true. Everyone thinks so."

"_I _don't think so."

He lifted his head off the table for a brief moment, their eyes met, and for a moment she thought he was going to say something, but instead he just shook his head and buried it in his arms once more.

"Harry thinks so."

"Oh, Ron, he doesn't!"

"Yeah, he does. You should have heard him earlier."

"He didn't mean any of it. I told you; he was looking for you. He wanted to apologise."

"What for? He's right; I can't play Quidditch. If we lose, it'll be my fault."

She felt anger rise within her and swallowed it back down again. "You're not rubbish," she said, gently.

"You didn't see me out there," he mumbled into the table, "It was embarrassing."

He lifted his head and leant back in his chair, rubbing his temples frustratedly. "Seriously, it's not just that I can't _save_ a goal to save my life. Tonight I actually _scored_ one for the other _side._"

"How could you score one for the other side?" asked Hermione, confused. "I thought the teams all practiced separately."

"They do."

"Then, how…?"

He gave a short, rather hollow laugh. "Dived to save one, panicked, kicked it the wrong way, and watched it fly straight through my own hoop."

Hermione put her hand over her mouth to hide the smile that instantly spread across her face.

"Thanks," he said, dryly. "I'm glad _someone_ thinks it's funny."

"Oh, no, it's not _that," _she said, hurriedly. "It's just… well… maybe you should take up football. It sounds like you'd be really good at it."

"Huh," said Ron, sceptically. "Well, it's a good thing there's a school football team I can join instead then, isn't there? Oh, no, hang on… there _isn't."_

Hermione flushed crimson. Her first instinct was to retort that she was only trying to help and there was no need to be sarcastic about it, but she knew it would only lead to another argument, and that was the last thing either of them wanted or needed.

For several minutes they sat in silence, Ron staring morosely into space, replaying the last few hours over and over in his head. He could just imagine how the Slytherins would react if he scored an own goal during an actual match. Malfoy would never let him forget it. Harry would never speak to him again. Ginny would disown him. The _twins_ would disown him. Hermione -

He shot her a surreptitious glance across the desk. Oh, yeah, he told himself scornfully, like _that_ isn't a total waste of time too. You score own goals and she goes to parties with the bloke who's probably going to replace you. Jesus, that would be ironic, considering the whole reason he'd originally wanted to try for Keeper in the first place, if he got the sack and she ended up going out with his replacement. And what was even more ironic, he might dislike the bloke intensely, but he would swap places with Cormac McLaggen in a heartbeat. McLaggen could be the one out on the pitch being rained on and having a song made up about him and Ron could go to Slughorn's party with Hermione. Yeah, except he couldn't, could he, because he wasn't _invited. _Not that he was bitter about it or anything...

"How was the party?" he asked aloud, "I forgot to ask."

Hermione tensed. "Alright."

She waited for the inevitable snide comment about Cormac McLaggen, but Ron was already staring into space again.

"It was rather boring, actually. I only stayed an hour."

No answer.

"Did I mention Slughorn climbed on the table and did a little dance?"

"Mm," said Ron, distractedly. "Good."

He suddenly smashed his fist down on the desk so hard it made Hermione jump.

"Do you know what? It's actually _worse_ this year, because Harry's Captain and I don't want to let him down. If I mess up, everyone will say I only got on the team because we're mates."

"Ron, they won't. You were part of the team that won the Cup last year, and Harry wasn't even _playing_ then. You have just as much right to be there as anyone."

"Yeah, well, it was a poor year. We were just lucky, that's all. I should have quit while I was ahead." He let out a low moan of frustration. "I just can't bear the thought of how smug McLaggen will be if he gets the Keeper spot instead of me."

"Then don't _let_ him! Anyway, I rather doubt that will happen. Harry doesn't like McLaggen any more than you do."

"He won't have much choice," he said, dully. "They need a Keeper and no one else is good enough. Harry's Captain, so he has to pick the best player for the team. Even if he _is_ an arsehole."

"Who says he's the best player? You saved more goals than McLaggen in the trials, didn't you?"

It was a dangerous subject to bring up, but she was desperate enough to try anything.

"Yeah," said Ron, gloomily, "Only one more, though. Not exactly a resounding victory."

"You still beat him."

"But that was the _trials_. We've got our first match in a month, andit's _bound_ to be against Slytherin, and I _never_ play well against Slytherin -"

"Only because you let them get to you. You just need to rise above it and concentrate on the match."

"Easy for you to say. I'd like to see _you_ take an exam with a load of people shouting at you the whole time."

"It's hardly the same thing, Ron."

"Why not?" he demanded hotly. "Because it's not as _important_, I suppose!"

"That's not what I said."

"It's what you meant, though."

"Please don't tell me what I meant, Ron," she said quietly.

Ron looked rather ashamed. "Sorry," he mumbled. He ran a weary hand through his hair. "Oh, I dunno. Maybe Malfoy's right."

"About what?" she asked, sharply.

"I _can't_ save a single thing."

"You're going to believe _Malfoy_ when he says you're rubbish, but not me or Harry when we say you're _not?" _

He shrugged. "You're only being nice because you're my friends."

"No, it's the other way around, actually. He's only being nasty because he hates you."

"Doesn't make it any less _true, _though."

"Remind me, did he win the Cup last year, or did you?"

"That was last year."

"Anyway, Malfoy's just winding you up because he wants a reaction. Remember what happened to Harry when he let Malfoy wind him up? He got banned from the team. Is that what you want?"

"Better than being _sacked_," he muttered, "And at least I'd take Malfoy down with me."

"Yes, and get yourself _expelled_ in the process!"

He rubbed his eyes wearily. "Yeah… you see, the thing is, Hermione… I don't actually _care_..."

"_I _care. Harry cares too."

"Harry wants Gryffindor to win the Cup," he said doggedly, "And we won't if I stay on as Keeper."

Hermione bit her lip in frustration. Nothing she said seemed to make any difference. He just twisted everything around, turned every positive into a negative. Maybe it was time for a new approach. Perhaps reverse psychology might work where encouragement had failed. Maybe if she _agreed_ with him, it might make him fight back and defend himself.

Ron leant back in his chair, stretched his arms behind his head and let out a long sigh. "Oh, I dunno, maybe I should just resign!"

Hermione kept her gaze fixed firmly on her book. "Maybe you should," she said lightly, hoping that the tone of disinterest in her voice was more convincing than it sounded in her head.

Ron was rather taken aback. "You think I should resign?"

"If that's what you want."

"But do you think I _should?" _he persisted.

_"_It's up to you, isn't it?"

He surveyed her with a frown for a few moments. He did not understand why she was refusing to give an opinion all of a sudden. Had he upset her? Said something wrong? He didn't know how to talk to her when she wasn't giving anything back.

He tried again. "Maybe McLaggen would be a better Keeper."

She said nothing.

"He _thinks_ he's better, anyway. Mind you, he thinks he's better than _everyone_, at _everything."_

"I really wouldn't know."

"Don't you talk to him at your little Slug Club parties?"

The familiar jibe was rather more half-hearted than usual.

"Not really," she said carefully. "Why would I?"

Ron shrugged helplessly. He looked down at his hands and back up at her again.

"So you really think I should resign, then?"

Hermione took a while to answer, which did not exactly fill him with confidence. Clearly, she was trying to think of a polite way of saying _yes_.

"Well... I suppose if you're not playing well and you're not enjoying it… what's the point in carrying on?"

There was a very long silence. Hermione dared not look up, although she had to physically restrain herself from doing so. She knew that if she saw the look in his eyes her resolve would crumble. Oh, _please_ argue back, she begged silently. Every atom of her being was crying out to stop this. To say the plan was backfiring on her was something of an understatement. _Reverse psychology! _What was she _thinking? _

"Right, well…" He sounded rather lost. "I suppose I'll just tell Harry when I see him, then."

"Okay," she said weakly.

"I suppose McLaggen'll be pleased, at least."

"Yes, I imagine he will."

He waited a moment for her to say something else, but her head was already buried in her book again. It was quite clear that, for her at least, the subject was closed. Well, that was it, then. He would go and tell Harry before he changed his mind. Funny really, now that the decision had finally been made, he didn't feel relieved, or happy, or any of the things he might have expected to feel. He didn't feel much of anything really. Just… flat. Defeated. He sighed heavily and started to get to his feet.

Hermione threw out an arm to stop him. "Don't."

He hesitated. "Don't what?"

"Don't resign."

Something like defiance - or triumph - flashed in his eyes. "Give me three good reasons why not."

And there you go, he had instantly reverted to his default position of arguing against her. She really couldn't win. Encouragement seemed to just give him a position to argue against, and _not_ challenging his view of himself just confirmed everything he believed anyway. It was infuriating.

"I shouldn't _need_ to! You must remember why you wanted the Keeper job so badly in the first place; aren't all those reasons good enough anymore?"

For some reason Ron laughed.

She frowned. "Why's that funny?"

He shook his head. "They were stupid reasons."

"I'm sure that's not true."

"Oh, it is. It really is. Really, _really_ laughably stupid reasons."

"Well -" she said, uncertainly, then stopped. She wanted to ask _"Like what?"_, but she didn't want to give him the excuse to make a list of his shortcomings.

Ron stifled a yawn. "Oh, sod it, I'm going to bed. Maybe when I wake up I'll suddenly have become some sort of Quidditch genius." He gave a short, mirthless laugh. "And maybe you've forgotten to do your Charms essay for tomorrow..."

Hermione laughed too, mostly out of sheer relief that he was still able to make a joke. _This_ Ron she knew how to deal with.

"Maybe I have!"

"No chance. When was it set, two weeks ago? I bet you did it the same night, didn't you?"

She hesitated, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. "Well, I _started _it the same night -"

"I knew it!" he crowed, delightedly.

"Oh, shut up," she smiled, smacking his arm gently. "Have you finished yours?"

"Would you believe, I _have_. Finished it last night. Knew I had practice tonight, so..." His smile faded to a frown. "Not that it was worth keeping the evening free for..."

She watched in dismay as the clouds descended upon him once more.

"Look," she said, bracingly, "You've got four weeks until the first match. That's loads of time. I'm sure once you have a few more practice sessions you'll get into the swing of things again. I mean, you haven't played for three months, you're bound to be a bit rusty."

"Yeah," said Ron heavily, although she got the feeling he wasn't really listening. He glanced at his watch and let out a sigh. "Well, I've given him an hour. That's plenty of time to have a bath and pretend to be asleep when I come in."

"I'm sure he wouldn't -"

"Well, good night," he said, abruptly. And he got up and sloped upstairs without a backward glance.

Hermione sat there staring at the space where he had been for a long time. _Quidditch! _It was more trouble than it was worth. Causing all this misery and tension between friends and siblings. Quidditch made Ron frustrated and angry with himself and he took it out on those closest to him. Of course, she reminded herself, that was what they were _there_ for - the boys had had to put up with her appalling exam stress last year, after all, and she and Ron had borne the brunt of Harry's rage more times than she could remember. But as long as Quidditch dominated his every waking thought and every moment of his spare time, there was no room for _her_. Once again, she was competing with Quidditch for his attention. To paraphrase Princess Diana, there were three of them in this relationship, and that made it rather crowded.

Maybe hexing Cormac McLaggen hadn't done Ron that much of a favour after all. Maybe she should have just let him fail to get on the team. He'd have been devastated at first, of course, but he could hardly have been more miserable than he was _now_. Although, she reminded herself, Confunding McLaggen hadn't necessarily guaranteed Ron the Keeper spot anyway. He'd saved all five goals by himself without any help from anyone. It wasn't as though she had deprived the better player of a position he deserved, or helped Ron to win _directly_. She hadn't saved those goals _for_ him. She shook her head wryly at her own self-delusion. No matter how she looked at it, how many ways she tried to justify her actions, no matter how much of a swaggering show-off he was or how much he deserved it, the fact was that she had _hexed_ someone. It went against all her principles as a prefect, and as a person.

But then, that was just what you _did_ when you cared about someone, wasn't it? Defended them against people who wanted to hurt them. Physically, Ron could probably stand up for himself pretty well against anyone in the school. Against his own self-doubt, though, he had no defence. She remembered all too well the agony of watching his first match against Slytherin last year and not being able to say or do anything to help. Malfoy and Pansy had better watch their backs this year. She had hexed one person already this term. What difference would another make? The second any Slytherins opened their mouths to sing, she would hex the bloody lot of them and hang the consequences.

She sighed. She didn't think she could bear another year like the last one. Not just for herself, but for Ron too. She would never understand how he - how _anyone_ - could care so much about Quidditch, but the fact was he did, and playing badly made him miserable. Not just Ron, either. Harry was annoyed with him for not pulling himself together, and guilty for having to discipline his best friend. Hermione was tense and irritable because she couldn't help engaging with him when he was in the mood for an argument, and that meant she walked away angry too. And of course, she was annoyed with him for a hundred other reasons, most of which came back to her frustration at the stagnant state of their relationship.

She closed her book with a sigh. Stagnant was right. Nothing had really changed in two years. _Five_ years, even. It was always the same old arguments. You're lazy. You're a know-it-all. It's about trust. No, it isn't. _Oh, yes it is. Oh, no it isn't. _Like Punch and Judy. Over and over and round and round. He'd been complaining about her nagging since first year, and she'd been complaining about his incredible procrastination just as long. They'd been arguing about Crookshanks since third year, her friendship with Viktor and Ron's ridiculous jealousy over it since fourth year, and their wildly differing attitudes to being a Prefect since fifth year. And now they had something brand _new_ to argue about, too - Slughorn's parties, and Cormac McLaggen. Which was _ridiculous_, as she didn't especially like either of them.

She had thought they'd got closer over the holidays, but now the idea seemed laughable. The squabbling and sniping that had so annoyed Harry during fifth year was worse than ever. She had filled out a bit and Ron had filled _up_ a bit, but essentially their relationship was exactly the same as it had always been. Nothing had changed. _Ron_ certainly hadn't. If anything, their relationship was _regressing_.

One thing was certain. _Something_ needed to change. Maybe it needed to be her.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

_I wanted to call this chapter "Merlin's Cock" but sadly it doesn't fit in with the other one-word chapter titles. Shame. Thank you for reading, and please leave a review! _

_Coming next: I confess, I'm in love with the next chapter, so I really hope you love it too. _

_Pb x_

_p.s: If you are reading this story in parallel with Six Foot Of Ginger Idiot, please read up until the entry for October 23rd. Also, if you haven't already, you might want to read my short story The For And Against List, which is set in late September of sixth year and explores Hermione's thoughts about her idiot best friend in greater detail. Thank you!_


	19. Chapter 19: Leaves

_Author's Note:_

_A big thank you to everyone who's ever written a review for this story and helped it hit the magic 1,000 mark. I've been writing this story for nearly two years now (to think that when I started it was going to be 10 short chapters long and finished in a month!), before that I was working on Faultlines for 18 months and Six Foot of Ginger Idiot for another 18 months before that. Sometimes it feels as though I have practically no life outside of this virtual one, and certainly with this story there have been several times that I've been heartily sick of it. I can honestly say that if it weren't for your reviews and encouragement I would have given up a long time ago, so thank you. _

_Anyway, Chapter 19: It's been fun reading all your ideas about this chapter, and I'm especially happy to say that no-one guessed what it was about. I've wanted to write this scene for four years, ever since Ron makes an offhand reference to it in Chapter 4 of SFOGI. So, if you were expecting the whole Lavender debacle to kick off, sorry, but you'll have to wait just a little longer. This one's for me._

_So here it is; my new favourite chapter. I loved writing this one, and I hope you enjoy reading it just as much._

_Pinky Brown, 3rd October 2010_

* * *

**Chapter Nineteen: Leaves**

"Ron. _Ron_. RON!"

His eyes flew open and he blinked at the sight of Harry and Hermione sitting peering at him as though he was sickening for something.

"What?"

Harry started to laugh, but Hermione just looked reproachful. "You fell asleep again."

"I didn't!"

"Your eyes were closed."

"_I wasn't asleep!_ I was just... resting my eyes…" he finished, lamely.

"You were asleep," she told him, crisply. "I said your name about ten times before you heard me. And besides, you were snoring."

Ron flushed crimson. "Well, I'm sorry my snoring disturbed you!" he retorted defensively.

"Maybe you should go back to bed," suggested Harry, helpfully.

"I can't go to bed, I've got to write this essay, it's due in on Monday!"

"And how are you getting on with that?" asked Hermione.

He glanced down at the mostly blank page in front of him. "Um… yeah, alright."

"Really? Because from here it looks as though all you've done is write your name at the top of the page."

Ron glared at her, but before he could even open his mouth to reply, she went on, "You know what you need?"

"Ten hours sleep?"

"No... well, _yes_, but -"

"The ability to save goals?"

Hermione ignored him. "Fresh air. A change of scene will work wonders."

"I really don't…" he started to protest, but she eased the book from his hands, closed it firmly, and put it down on the desk behind her out of reach.

"But... what about _your_ essay?" he protested weakly.

"Well, that's what _Sunday's_ for!" she said briskly. "It won't hurt me to take a few hours off, will it?" She got to her feet and started gathering up her things. "Meet me in the front entrance in five minutes."

"What?"

"On second thoughts, better make it fifteen; there's something I need to do first."

She hauled her bag onto her shoulder and turned to go. "Oh, and make sure you wrap up warm, it looks cold out there."

And with that she was gone, and Ron and Harry gaped at each other in utter amazement.

"What just happened?" asked Ron, weakly.

"I've absolutely no idea."

"Do you think she's cracked?"

Harry started to laugh. "Maybe you've finally worn her down, mate."

Ron shook his head in silent wonder. "I'm still asleep, aren't I? This is all a dream."

"I can pinch you if you like."

"No, you're alright."

They both laughed, but Ron's smile soon faded. He felt a stirring of excitement that he quickly pushed down. The thought of spending a couple of hours alone with just Hermione, out in the grounds with no-one else around... He dismissed it at once; they were just going for a walk, and anyway, it was lunchtime soon, so it wouldn't be a very long one. Still… opportunities to spend time with her were few and far between. Even if he _was_ practically dead on his feet and hardly in any condition to take advantage of any opportunities that might arise.

Half an hour later he was kicking his heels impatiently in the entrance hall when Hermione arrived.

"Sorry I'm late," she said breathlessly, smiling at him. "Took a bit longer than I expected."

Ron just shrugged. If he had been more awake he might have made a joke about there being a long queue to return books at the library, but just managing to put one foot in front of the other was about his level at the moment.

She pushed open the front door and Ron winced and recoiled as bright sunlight flooded into the hallway.

"What a beautiful day!" she exclaimed happily, stepping out into the light and breathing in a deep lungful of the chilly October air. "Now wasn't this a good idea?"

"Mm," said Ron, following her and closing the door behind them. "So where are we going?"

"I thought just around the grounds. It doesn't really matter _where _we go, does it?"

He shrugged. "No, I suppose not."

They started walking slowly down the path that led to the grounds. They didn't have much to say to one another at first, both feeling rather nervous about the day ahead and being completely alone with the other. Away from Harry, away from the castle, away from _everyone_. Anything might happen. There was hope and excitement, and fear too, although for Ron most of this was masked by a fug of exhaustion. It was several minutes before he was awake enough to even notice what she was wearing.

"So what's with the wellies?"

"Well, I thought with all the rain we've been having lately, it's bound to be really muddy."

"Oh yeah," he mumbled, glancing down at his distinctly not mudproof and very battered old trainers. "I hadn't really thought about that."

She stopped and frowned, following his gaze. "Don't _you_ have any wellies?"

"Nope."

"Well, could you borrow some?"

"In _my_ size?" he joked weakly, then shook his head. "There's an old pair of Bill's I usually use."

"And where are they?"

"Uhh… Devon."

She laughed. "It's a shame we haven't passed our Apparition tests yet or you could have nipped back to get them."

Ron affected shock. "But nobody can Apparate in the grounds, Hermione!" He shook his head in mock-disbelief. "Honestly, woman, haven't you _read_ 'Hogwarts: A History'?"

She shoved him in the arm and they both laughed.

"Look," she teased slyly, gesturing at their clothes, "We're colour-coordinated!"

Ron made a face. "Sort of."

"Well, we've both got brown coats on, your trousers are brown, so's my skirt..."

"My scarf's orange, my jumper's maroon, your boots are red…"

"Exactly! All the colours of Autumn! We're camouflaged against the leaves! Nobody will be able to see us from the castle!" she added, gleefully.

"I think they'll be able to see your wellies. And my hair."

"My wellies, maybe, but your hair's the _exact _colour of the leaves. If you stood against that tree, you'd be invisible!"

"If I stood against that tree, I'd be _dead_," said Ron dryly. "It's the Whomping Willow."

Hermione gave a loud shriek and pulled him away out of range of the tree's lethal branches. They hurried down the hillside, laughing. Following behind, Hermione watched his shoes slipping and sliding about on the wet leaves and wondered if she dared suggest he might be steadier on his feet if they linked arms. But the path was narrow and uneven and if they did that, they'd probably both go flying. Not that would necessarily be a _bad_ thing, of course… She imagined them arriving back at the castle at dusk, their clothes caked with mud and leaves in their hair. What would people think? Well she knew _exactly_ what they would think, and she was quite happy to have them think it. Especially if it were _true_.

Away from the protection of the castle, the wind whipped up and blew their hair into their faces and nearly knocked them off their feet. Hermione's hair was blowing about so much she had to hold it back off her face with both hands, which made Ron laugh.

"Enjoying all the lovely fresh air, are you?" he shouted over the wind.

"Very much!" she shouted back. Ever-practical, she untied her scarf from around her neck and attempted to fashion a makeshift headscarf out of it, which only made him laugh even more.

"You look like somebody's gran!"

"At least my ears are warm!" she shot back, although after a few minutes she surreptitiously removed the scarf and tied it around her neck again.

Ron watched her out of the corner of his eye, struggling to control her hair in the wind. She was all windswept and ruddy-faced and breathless, and the sight of her did all sorts of things to his insides. Even the wellies were surprisingly sexy. She was in her element out here and he wished he felt more awake so he could match her enthusiasm. She kept stopping and swooping down to pick up ever more vibrantly coloured leaves. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold and the exertion of walking, and her eyes were shining with joy. The impulse to take her face in his hands and kiss her was so strong he took an involuntary step backwards, narrowly avoiding stepping into a large patch of thistles.

"Look at this one, Ron!" she exclaimed excitedly, "Look at the _colours! _Aren't they_ amazing?"_

_You're _amazing, he thought to himself.

"All the oranges and yellows and reds... they're so beautiful..."

_You're _beautiful.

She straightened up again and smiled at him happily. "Oh, it's such a _perfect_ day! Aren't you glad you came?"

His breath seemed to catch in his throat. "Yes," he said huskily.

She glanced up at him with a frown. "I hope you're not getting a cold."

"I'm fine."

"You sound as though you might be coming down with something. You _have_ been very run-down lately. Maybe this was a bad idea -"

"No!" he interrupted hastily, "It's a great idea! It's just what I needed! Lovely fresh _aaargh!"_

His foot slipped on the wet leaves, and he skidded a few feet, his arms windmilling madly, and sat down hard in a pile of leaf mulch.

It was such a perfectly executed fall that she couldn't help laughing.

Ron jumped quickly to his feet and dusted himself down. "It's these bloody shoes," he muttered, his face crimson with embarrassment. "No grip."

Hermione was now laughing so much she could barely speak.

"Yes, very funny," said Ron, dryly. "Go ahead and laugh, don't mind me."

"I'm sorry," she spluttered, valiantly attempting to regain her composure. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," said Ron, watching her with a half-resigned, half-amused expression. "Just a bit embarrassed."

She was laughing so much she started to cough, and Ron gave her a helpful couple of whacks between the shoulder blades.

"Ooh, I don't like the sound of that cough," he said with feigned concern. "I do hope you're not coming down with something."

Hermione gave him one of her finest glares. "Very funny."

Ron laughed. "That would be ironic, wouldn't it? All this lovely healthy fresh air, and _you_ come down with a cold."

"Oh, shut up," she retorted. "I am _not_ coming down with a cold."

"Maybe you should have remembered to bring a hat."

"Don't remind me," she groaned, "It's going to take me _hours_ to get all these knots out of my hair!"

Ron had a sudden flashback to that week he'd spent at Hermione's house two years earlier. Sitting on her bed and watching her brush her hair, and wondering why it made him feel so odd. Now, of course, he knew _exactly_ why. The urge to reach up and touch her hair, her face, her lips came back stronger than ever.

"Come on," he said, rather gruffly, "Are we going for this walk or what?"

They walked over the hills for an hour or so, talking and laughing, then Ron stopped and glanced at his watch.

"I suppose we should probably be getting back soon."

Hermione did not even attempt to conceal her disappointment. _"Already?"_

He gave an apologetic shrug. "Well, it's nearly lunchtime. If we don't go back soon we'll miss lunch."

"Oh, I don't mind," she said, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm not really hungry, to be honest. Shall we go down to the lake?"

She started walking on again, and Ron stared after her, torn between wanting to follow her and the needs of his stomach.

After a few yards she turned around, looking puzzled. "Aren't you coming?"

Ron let out a soft moan. It looked as though she was going to win this one. "Okay," he said, weakly.

She glanced up at him as though considering him for the first time. "Why, are you hungry?"

"I could eat something," said Ron, dryly.

"Well, don't you have any biscuits in your pockets or something?"

"No," said Ron, through gritted teeth, "The only things in my pockets are _holes." _

"Well -" began Hermione and then stopped, leaving him hanging for her decision for almost a minute until she could stand it no longer. "Well, it's a good thing I brought a packed lunch then, isn't it?"

Ron's eyes widened. "Oh, that's evil!" he exclaimed, over her laughter. "Jesus, that's like some special kind of torture. Making me think I'd have to miss lunch."

"Did you really think I would expect you to spend the whole day out here without any _food? _How long have we known each other?"

He shook his head in disbelief. "You know, this has made me see you in a whole new light."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I thought you were a _nice_ girl..."

She laughed delightedly. "I _am _a nice girl!"

He shook his head solemnly. "No. You're pure evil. This whole top-of-the-class, wannabe Head Girl thing's just a front, isn't it? Underneath it all there's a very bad girl waiting to get out."

"Yes," she said sternly, "Absolutely right. So you'd better be nice to me today, or who knows what I might do?"

"Prefects can't put other prefects in detention," he reminded her.

"Who's talking about detention? I can legally hex you now, remember?"

"You can't. I'm still underage. It's illegal to hex someone who's underage."

She gestured around the empty hillside. "Who would know?"

Ron laughed and held up his hands in mock-defence. "Okay, okay, I'm officially scared now!"

"You should be."

"I am."

"Good."

They grinned at each other for slightly too long, then Hermione turned away from him, her cheeks feeling flushed and warm.

"Let's find a rock to sit on," she suggested. "The ground looks a bit damp."

"Okay." He glanced around quickly. "What about that one?"

She shook her head. "It looks a bit small."

"I could sit on your lap."

Hermione was so surprised she burst out laughing. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

He shrugged, and grinned. "My legs are too bony to sit on. You look like you'd be more comfortable."

"For _you_, maybe."

"Well, _yeah_. That's what I _meant_."

She shoved him and they both laughed.

They made their way down to the edge of the lake, where there was a large flattish rock popular in the summer for student picnics.

"I can't believe you bought a packed lunch," said Ron, sitting down and watching her shrug the rucksack off her shoulders.

"Why do you think it took me half an hour to get ready? What did you _think_ I was doing?"

He shrugged. "Taking a book back to the library?"

She smacked his arm and they both laughed, and then grinned at each other.

"So what did you bring?"

"Wait and see."

"Tease."

Hermione flushed. She knew he hadn't meant it like _that_, but still…

"Oh, _wow!" _exclaimed Ron, as she unloaded the rucksack. "I thought when you said you'd brought food you just meant sandwiches, but there's a whole _picnic_ in here! Ham sandwiches, pork pies, fruit cake…"

She laughed. "Well, I thought we might be out here all day, so…"

_Hoped, _more like it.

"This is brilliant," said Ron happily, biting into a pork pie. "_You're_ brilliant. Where did you get all this stuff from anyway?"

"Hmm? Oh, the kitchens."

"The kitchens?" he repeated, rather stunned. "You _never_ go to the kitchens. You always say it's the secret shame of the school."

"Yes, well," she said, stiffly, "I did offer to make our own sandwiches, but you know what the House Elves are like; they wouldn't let me. They didn't want me there at all, actually. Said they were far too busy preparing lunch to make special exceptions. Made it quite clear I was just in the way." She shook her head sadly. "I don't think they've forgiven me for my SPEW campaign yet."

"I'm sure that's not true," said Ron, uneasily. "They were probably just busy, like they said."

"No," she insisted. "It's more than that. Dobby's the only one who can even look me in the eye. And even then, he's obviously really embarrassed and ashamed to even be seen talking to me. As soon as I told them it was for _you_, though, they couldn't have been more helpful. They love you. They all call you Mister Wheezy, like Dobby does. Kept bringing over things you'd like. Mister Wheezy likes fruit cake. Mister Wheezy likes ham sandwiches."

Ron laughed, then stopped at her reproachful look. "Sorry."

"It's not your fault if they don't like me. I was only trying to help them. I don't understand why they can't see that."

"It's just how they are. They exist to serve. If they're not helping people, they don't know what to do with themselves. It's their whole reason for living. You saw what happened to Winky when she lost her job -"

"It's not a _job_, Ron, its slave labour!"

He gave a helpless shrug. "Look, you meant well, that's the main thing. At least you can say you tried."

"Oh, I'm not giving up, she said, briskly, "I'm going to help free them whether they like it or not!"

Ron said nothing. What was the point? They were never going to agree on this one. "Do you want a pork pie?" he asked.

She shook her head, and they fell into silence. Ron watched her rifle through the bag and bring out something made of brightly coloured plastic that he didn't recognise as food.

"What's that?" he asked, curiously.

"It's a flask."

He gave her a blank stare.

"It's a Muggle invention to keep drinks hot. Look, if you take the lid off, it's a cup!"

Ron looked awestruck. "That's the most brilliant thing I've ever seen."

She laughed. "I suppose they _are_ quite good. They've been around for years so I've always taken them for granted."

"Where did you find it?"

"In the kitchens, of course."

"The _school _kitchens?"

She nodded.

"What was it doing there?"

"I've absolutely no idea!" she laughed. "But don't complain, because thanks to the wonders of Muggle technology, we can have _tea_."

He laughed too. "Believe me, I'm not. I'm just wondering if they'd notice if we didn't bring it back."

She set out the plastic cup-that-was-also-a-lid on the uneven surface of the rock and put the flask down beside it, fishing in her bag for something.

Ron watched this little ceremony with interest. "What are you looking for, the tea strainer?"

She laughed, and pulled out a second non-matching china cup she had borrowed from the kitchens. "We don't need one, it's got a built-in strainer in the neck, see?"

"It's a work of genius," said Ron, shaking his head in wonder. "My Dad's right; Muggles are _amazing_."

She smiled at him, and then carefully poured out the tea.

"Which cup do you want?"

Ron pointed at the little plastic one, and she laughed, and even more so when he started drinking from it, as it looked rather odd in his large hand.

"You put sugar in it," he observed after a few moments, with a frown.

"Yes, I know. Six sugars, actually, because it's a big flask."

"But you don't _take_ sugar."

She shrugged. "Yes, but _you_ do. Anyway, I don't mind. It's rather nice to have sweet tea on a cold day like today. Gives me a bit of energy for climbing all these hills!"

Ron shook his head with a wry smile. "What would your mum and dad say?"

"They'd disown me. No, they're not _that_ bad. We do sometimes eat things with sugar in, you know."

"Yeah…" said Ron, dryly, "Fruit doesn't count."

"We have cake sometimes, on special occasions. And yogurt."

"Yogurt!" exclaimed Ron, laughing. "Wow, you do like to live dangerously."

"Oh shut up," she laughed, reddening. "They're really not that bad. If you must know, Mum drinks a _lot_ of white wine, and that's _full_ of sugar."

"I like your mum," chuckled Ron.

"She likes you, too."

Ron was rather taken aback. "She does?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't she?"

"She said that?"

"Yes, of course. I asked them what they thought, after you left. Dad likes you too."

"Oh," said Ron. Hermione's parents liked him. That was rather a weird feeling. Of course, it didn't really matter whether they liked him or not, unless... well, it didn't matter, that was all. He wondered if they would still like him if they knew some of the things he thought about their daughter. Or some of the things he did while thinking about her.

"You make a nice cup of tea," he said aloud.

"It's only tea!"

"Yeah, but not everyone can make a good cup."

"You mean, not everyone makes it the way _you_ like it," she pointed out.

He chuckled. "Very strong and very sweet, you mean. Yeah, that's true. But some people are still rubbish at it. _Fleur_ can't make a decent cup of tea to save her life," he added with relish.

It was ridiculous to feel pleased that she was better at something as trivial as making tea than Fleur Delacour, but Hermione couldn't help feeling just a little bit smug regardless. She sipped her very strong, very sweet tea and bit back a smile.

"Do you know what would make this perfect?" Ron suddenly asked.

A small jolt went through her. She knew what would make this moment perfect for _her_. "What?" she asked, tentatively.

"Biscuits."

She shoved him and he laughed, and she did too.

"Well, _actually_…" she teased.

"You've brought _biscuits?" _exclaimed Ron, impressed.

She shook her head solemnly. "Well, I was _going_ to, but they only had chocolate ones, and I remembered you said that custard creams were your favourites…"

"Oh," said Ron, disappointed. He cursed himself silently. "Oh, okay."

And then he caught sight of the mischievous smile on her face.

"Oh, you -"

Hermione burst out laughing. "I can't _believe_ you fell for that!"

"Very funny," said Ron, but he couldn't help laughing too. "I suppose I deserved that."

"Yes, you did," she smiled, "And as it happens..." She reached into the bag and produced half a packet of chocolate biscuits with a flourish.

"You're brilliant," said Ron, shaking his head in awe.

She felt her face heat up. "It's only biscuits."

"Yeah, and the tea, and the sandwiches, and the cake... you really thought of everything," he added, admiringly.

They beamed at each other for a moment, then she looked away quickly. "You know what else I can't believe?"

"What?"

_"_I can't believe you didn't ask me what was in the bag."

He chuckled. "Well, in case you hadn't noticed, I wasn't exactly with it earlier. It's pretty much a miracle I'm wearing matching _shoes_, to be honest..."

They both glanced down at his feet to make sure and laughed. Ron's trainers were so encrusted with mud it was hard to tell whether they were matching or not.

"I mean, didn't you even wonder what was in that _massive rucksack?"_

He shrugged. "Didn't even occur to me. I suppose if I'd thought about it I'd probably just have assumed it was books."

"_Books?" _she exclaimed, laughing. "Why would I bring _books_ on a country walk?"

He laughed too. "I dunno, do I? Same reason you take them everywhere else."

"What, in case I get bored listening to you talk about Quidditch?" she said teasingly.

Ron feigned outrage. "Surely that's impossible!"

They both laughed.

"I don't really mean that by the way," she added quickly. "You know you can talk to me about anything, don't you?"

"Oh, yeah," said Ron, privately thinking that hell would freeze over before he ever discussed certain matters with Hermione. "'Course!"

They grinned at each other and returned to their tea, enjoying the view and the company and the peace of it all.

"This is nice," said Ron. "You were right, the fresh air really helps. Thanks."

"You're welcome," she smiled back.

Ron sipped his tea and gazed out at the dark lake and suddenly remembered sitting here last year - almost exactly a year ago in fact - miserable in the snow after that first disastrous match against Slytherin, staring into the water and considering drowning himself in the icy depths. The first match of the season was only a few weeks away. He really hoped that history wasn't going to repeat itself.

Hermione glanced sideways and frowned. Ron was looking rather pensive.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, hopefully.

He made a face. "Quidditch, what else?"

_Of course_, thought Hermione, resignedly, then mentally scolded herself.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she offered.

Ron continued to stare out at the lake for quite some time. Finally, he turned to her and shook his head. "Do you know what? I really don't. I don't want to _talk_ about it. I don't want to _think_ about it. I'd actually quite like to pretend, just for today, that it doesn't exist. Is that alright with you?"

"I think I can manage that," she smiled.

Ron looked rather sheepish. "Sorry."

"What for?"

"Well, you must be sick of hearing about it by now."

She shook her head. "Don't be silly," she told him, beaming. "That's what friends are for, isn't it?"

Ron nodded, but inwardly felt as though he had been punched. _Friends_, yeah. People didn't think about kissing their friends, did they? They certainly didn't _act_ on it. And it was a nice afternoon, and it was good to get away from the castle and especially to get to spend so much time with just Hermione… If he said anything now, or made some kind of move… she'd probably freak out or burst into tears or slap him or run off screaming. Things would be horribly awkward between them for ages. It wasn't something you could easily explain away, after all. You couldn't _accidentally_ kiss someone. You had to _want_ to do it. You had to have been thinking about it beforehand. She'd _know_ he'd been having those kinds of thoughts about her, and that would be utterly mortifying. She might find it impossible to be friends with him knowing how he felt about her. She might stop hanging around with him and start looking for some new friends to hang around with instead. It would ruin _everything_.

"How cold do you reckon that lake is?" he asked aloud.

"Why, are you thinking of going swimming?" joked Hermione.

"I will if you will," he flashed back.

"Oh, what a shame. You know I'd love to, but I haven't got my swimming costume with me. Damn!"

The corners of Ron's mouth twitched slightly. "Who said anything about wearing a costume?"

She affected outrage and slapped his arm.

"What?" said Ron, innocently. "I only meant go in with our clothes on. What did you _think_ I meant?" He shook his head. "Honestly, woman, your mind!"

Hermione smacked his arm again, her face crimson with heat, and they both laughed. She wondered what he would do if she called his bluff and took him up on his implied offer to go skinny-dipping. Of course, she was never going to find out. She wasn't that kind of girl. She highly doubted she would _ever_ be that kind of girl. But she could _pretend_ to be…

"Fine!" she exclaimed, and she jumped to her feet and started to unbelt her coat. "Remember I said I was going to surprise you sometime?"

Ron's eyes widened and he made an odd kind of noise which might have been protest or encouragement.

She closed her coat again hurriedly. "Honestly, your face! You didn't really think I was actually going to do it, did you?"

"Course not!" said Ron, hastily. He heard himself give a strangled sort of laugh. "What, with all those Grindylows swimming about? You'd have to be barking mad to go in there!"

Hermione put her hands on hips in pretend outrage. "Are you saying I'm too sensible and boring to do something like that?"

"Yes, said Ron promptly, "But if you are, then so am I. I wouldn't even go in there in fur robes, let alone starkers. Once was quite enough, thanks very much. I mean, can you believe they let us go in there in _February?_"

She laughed, and was very grateful he had moved the subject on from skinny dipping.

"I can't believe they let us go in there _at all. _I mean, when you think about it, there were so many things that could have gone wrong. What if we'd woken up underwater before anyone could get to us? We would have _drowned!"_

Ron shrugged. "But we didn't."

"But we _could_ have! There wasn't anyone there with us to supervise, was there? The Champions were all of age - apart from Harry - but _we_ weren't. Three fifteen year olds and a little girl left there on their own for over an hour. Actually, you were still _four_teen, weren't you?"

"Yeah, but only for another couple of weeks."

"Still… I can't imagine that happening at my old school. There'd be an outcry. They'd shut it down!"

"Well, _yeah_," said Ron, who rather felt this was stating the obvious, "But they probably wouldn't have held a tournament involving fire-breathing dragons at your old school, either."

Hermione laughed. "Fair point. I suppose it's not really a fair comparison. But I still say it could have been handled better. And imagine telling Harry and the others that if they didn't return within the hour, they'd lose us for good! What an awful thing to tell someone! Harry was well outside of the hour too, wasn't he? God knows what he must have thought. That we'd all _drown_, I suppose."

"Yeah, but that's ridiculous. As if they'd let something like that happen!"

"I suppose it's just because he was brought up by Muggles. _You'd_ take it for granted that there was a magical way to keep everyone safe, Harry took them at their word." She shook her head. "I can't believe that was all nearly two years ago."

"Feels like longer," he said.

"It does," she agreed. "So much has happened since, I suppose. Cedric, Sirius… the Ministry..."

They fell into silence, remembering. Hermione hugged her arms around her body and gazed out at the lake, not feeling quite comfortable enough to sit down beside him again just yet.

"I will though," she said softly.

"Will what?"

She flushed. She hadn't meant to say that out loud. "Surprise you sometime."

_You already have, _he thought to himself. _Several times today already._

"Fine," he said aloud. He pretended to be stricken with an awful thought. "You're not going to push me in the lake, are you?"

She laughed. _"No! _It's not that kind of a surprise!"

"You sound like you already know what it is," observed Ron, with unusual shrewdness.

"Don't be silly," said Hermione, lightly. "If I knew what it was, how would it be a surprise?"

She sat down beside him again and shot him a quick sideways glance. His hands were shoved deep in his pockets for warmth and he was gazing out at the lake with a slight frown. She was suddenly seized with an almost overwhelming desire to lean across and kiss him. Just on the cheek, but in her head she imagined him turning his face toward her in surprise and them both just _knowing_ what was going to happen, leaning in and… Could she do it? Did she dare? When was she ever going to get another opportunity like this again, with both of them in a good mood and with no Harry or anyone else around? Or she could just reach out and take his hand in hers. There was no way he could misinterpret _that_, was there?

Her heart beating wildly in her chest, she lay back on the rock and lifted her gaze to the clouds scudding across the bright sky above. Turning her head slightly she could see his profile silhouetted against the sky, and willed him to turn and look at her.

"Look at the clouds, Ron!" she exclaimed, brightly.

Ron shot the swiftest of glances skywards and then returned his gaze to the lake. He was acutely aware of her lying down beside him and his whole body tensed in response. He didn't dare lie down next to her, and he didn't dare look around. It was hard enough resisting kissing her when they were standing _up_. He certainly didn't trust himself not to do something stupid if they were both lying _down_. Oh, God, this was _torture. _He jumped quickly to his feet and went and stood a few feet away by the lake, well away from temptation.

Feeling annoyed and more than a little foolish, Hermione sat up again and started to pack away the picnic things with rather more aggression than necessary.

Ron let out a long breath. He could see movement out of the corner of his eye and knew she was sitting up again, but he couldn't go back immediately; it would look really obvious. The image of her unbelting her coat and laughing came unbidden into his head. He closed his eyes and imagined her opening it to reveal that, underneath, she was completely naked but for a pair of bright red wellington boots. And then beckoning him to her with a smile and wrapping her coat around both of them, pressing her naked body against his, tilting her chin upwards, looking into his eyes, and -

Seeking distraction, he leant down and grabbed a fistful of pebbles from the lake shore, hurling them one by one into the water until some of the tension he felt eased. He shot a quick glance back at Hermione, who was busy emptying the dregs of the tea out onto the grass.

_Come on_, he scolded himself. W_hen are you going to get an opportunity like this again? Do something! Something nice, something impressive, something that might make her start to think of you as more than just a friend. _

He glanced around wildly for some flowers or something he could give her - in October, in Scotland! - and then realised he was still clutching one of the stones from the lake. A smooth, flat pebble of grey Scottish granite. A slow smile spread across his face._ Perfect! _He leant down and washed it carefully in the black water and dried it on his jacket, then, feeling rather pleased with himself, he walked back and held it out to Hermione on the palm of his hand.

Hermione looked back at him blankly, and Ron's hand - and confidence - wavered.

"For your stone collection," he mumbled, feeling his face heat up. "'Cos you said you collected… that's okay, though, if you don't want it... I'll put it back."

"No, I want it! I mean… it's a nice one. Thank you. Thank you!"

She took it from him and put it safely in the pocket of her coat before he could change his mind.

"Anyway," said Ron hurriedly, "Shall we, er…"

"Yes," said Hermione, rather flustered. "Let's!"

"Shall we take the short cut back?" he suggested. "Around the lake and the edge of the forest?"

In reality he just wanted to get back to the castle as quickly as possible before he said or did something else he might regret. His attempt at a big romantic gesture seemed to have gone down like a lead balloon.

"Good idea," she agreed. "I really don't fancy climbing any more hills today. My feet are starting to protest a bit."

"Yeah, it was your poor feet I was thinking of when I suggested it."

"I'm sure it was," she said dryly.

"Listen, you're the one who came out with sensible shoes on. If anyone's feet should be protesting, its mine."

"Rubber wellies are made for splashing through puddles, not climbing hills," she told him. "I wouldn't be at all surprised if I get a blister."

After a few hundred yards they came to an old wooden stile, at the point where the path diverged and veered right, away from the lake and towards the woods. Ron sped up, hoping to get there first and offer her a helping hand to climb down on the other side, but she reached the stile before him and climbed over with ease. Shaking his head at yet another missed opportunity, he followed, only realising when he jumped down on the other side that in front of them lay a field of thick, deep mud so strewn with enormous puddles that it would probably be easier to swim across.

"I could give you a piggy-back if you like," he offered hopefully, but it was too late, she was already striding out purposefully into the mud. He wasn't even sure if she had heard him. He shrugged, gave a resigned little sigh, and ploughed after her, his trainers instantly filling up with freezing, muddy water.

Hermione picked her way through the mud as fast as she dared. Her heart was racing and her cheeks were burning at his words. _A piggy-back! _What a thing to say! Oh, of course she was being ridiculous, it was just a piggy-back, the sort of thing a father did for his child or a brother for his little sister. It didn't mean anything. _He_ didn't mean anything by it. But still…

She stopped when she reached the far side of the field where the path picked up again and waited for him. She could hear him swearing from thirty metres away.

"Well," announced Ron wryly, as he approached, "I think I've finally killed these shoes."

He pulled out his wand and attempted to dry his sodden shoes, socks and mud-splattered trousers as best he could, but soon gave it up as a bad job. It seemed pointless when they were only going to get muddy again.

They set off along the path to the forest. It was gone three o'clock now and the warmth had gone out of the sun. Hermione shivered, and not just because of the bitter wind. Being so close to the forest always made her feel uneasy and on edge, reminded her of things she would rather forget. But darkness would be falling soon and it was a much quicker and easier route back to the castle.

"I wonder what happened to my dad's car," Ron mused aloud as they approached the trees. "Do you think it's still there?"

Hermione raised a quizzical eyebrow. "What, living wild?"

Ron laughed. "Yeah! Running with the unicorns!"

"I've no idea. Try calling it."

He put his fingers to his lips and gave a piercing whistle and Hermione winced and clamped her hands over her ears. They waited a few moments, but nothing happened.

"Ah, well," shrugged Ron, turning away from the forest and starting to walk on again, "Probably a good thing anyway. Don't want anything attracting the attention of those spiders."

"I suppose not," she agreed. "Shame, though. I'd like to have met the famous car. We could even have gone for a ride in it!"

Ron looked uncertain. "Would you have let me drive you, though?"

"Of course. Why wouldn't I?"

"Well, I dunno, don't Muggles need to pass some sort of test to drive a car? Maybe you'd think it wasn't safe or something."

"What, being driven about a forest in a flying car by someone who only ever drove it once before, aged twelve, and crashed it into a tree? No, that sounds perfectly safe to me."

They both laughed.

"Actually, that's not quite true," Ron pointed out, "I drove it _twice_. The second time was the following June, so I was thirteen -"

"Oh, well that makes all the difference!"

"- And I drove it into a nest of giant killer spiders. _Hmm_. On second thoughts, never get in a car with me, Hermione."

"Well… I _will_… but next time I'll make sure _I_ drive."

"_Can_ you drive?"

She shook her head. "No, and I can't see the point in learning really. In a few months we'll be able to Apparate. Why would I need a _car?"_

He shrugged. "I dunno, I suppose it's useful if you have kids. We had to go everywhere by Floo Network and it's pretty easy to lose one that way. Fred and George went through a stage of deliberately getting out at the wrong places. Dad had to get the Ministry involved to track them down once. Anyway, I quite like the idea of having a car. You can't see out of the window when you travel by Floo. When I was staying at your house that was the best bit, being driven around the countryside by your Mum and Dad."

"_That _was the best bit?" she teased, "Charming! So you come to my house for a whole week, I show you the delights of Cambridge, we go to an Italian restaurant _and_ a supermarket, and the thing you liked best was sitting in the _car?"_

They both laughed.

"Well, I'd never been in one before, had I? Not a proper car being properly driven on _roads_, anyway."

"A proper car wouldn't have saved you from killer spiders though, would it?"

"No-oo. Ah, it's a shame you can't meet the car. Me and Harry had a real laugh in it..."

She raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"… apart from the time we were being pursued by killer spiders," he conceded, with a grin. "Driving it to Scotland was fantastic, though. The countryside looks _amazing_ from a hundred feet above the ground."

Hermione shuddered at the thought. "I'll take your word for it." She shot him a quick sideways glance then looked down at her feet. "You know, I always thought it was really brave of you to go into the forest after those spiders."

"Not really," he sighed. "Just reckless and stupid."

"Well, _I_ thought it was brave."

He shook his head, although inside he felt very warm all of a sudden. "Nah, it wasn't. Not really. I wouldn't have done it if I'd know what was hiding in there."

"I think you would."

"You do know I threw up afterwards?" he told her, but he was smiling when he said it.

There was a short silence. They beamed at each other then both looked away quickly, rather pink in the face.

"Well, _you_ went into the forest with Harry and Umbridge!" said Ron. "That was pretty bloody brave too. You had no idea what would happen in there or what you might meet."

She laughed. "Yes, exactly! I had no idea what I was doing! What were the words you used again? Oh yes, _reckless and stupid!"_

They both laughed.

"But a sort of _brilliant_ reckless and stupid," said Ron fervently, and she blushed. "Whereas me with the spiders… that was just 'cos Harry was going in there whatever happened and I couldn't let him go on his own."

"You're a good friend."

He smiled slightly. There was that word again.

"But a terrible team-mate, apparently…"

"Ron," she warned.

"Sorry. Sorry! I know, I promised not to talk about Quidditch."

"Yes, you did," she said severely, "That's the whole _point _of today."

"So it's your job to distract me?" he teased.

"Yes," she said firmly, blushing a little. "Exactly. It's my job to distract you from Quidditch."

_You have no idea how much of a good job you do, _thought Ron ironically. _That's half the bloody problem._

Hermione started laughing all of a sudden, and he shot her a quizzical look.

"What's funny?"

"I was just thinking… my Dad driving us about the countryside… '_I expect this is the first time you've ever been in a car, Ron'!"_

Ron chuckled. "Yeah, that _was_ sort of hard to explain. '_Actually, Mr. Granger, it's funny you should say that…'"_

They both laughed, but Hermione's smile soon faded. She had just realised something important. That week he'd stayed at her house, the first time she'd thought about kissing him; that had been only a couple of weeks after the events at the Shrieking Shack. At the time she'd put it down to teenage hormones, but maybe the shock of nearly losing him that night had made her realise just how much he meant to her, forced those latent feelings to the surface. It made perfect sense.

"You know," she said, in a tremulous voice, "I don't think I've ever been more terrified in my whole life than that moment."

Ron tried to work out where her thought processes might have taken her, then gave up.

"At the Ministry, you mean?"

She shook her head. "I didn't have _time_ to be scared then. And besides, all my friends were with me. No, I meant, the night we first met Sirius. Watching you get dragged off to almost certain death and not being able to do anything about it…" She shivered at the memory. "Harry will tell you; I froze up totally. I couldn't think, couldn't move..."

They looked at each other.

"When Harry and I went down that tunnel after you... it can't have been more than half an hour but it felt like _days_… not knowing what we would find at the end of it, imagining the worst… I thought… it sounds silly now, but I thought Sirius… the_ dog, _I mean_… _was going to _eat_ you."

Ron gave a mirthless laugh. "So did I."

"You must have been terrified."

He shrugged. "I suppose. Mostly I was just operating on sheer adrenalin. You know, trying to stay alive long enough for help to arrive. And if you remember, I had a badly broken leg and what felt like a dislocated shoulder from being dragged down that tunnel. It's hard to find time to worry about anything else when you can see your own shin bone sticking out of your leg." He grimaced. "To be honest, I was a lot more scared when my dad was attacked by that snake and we thought he was going to die. _That_ was fucking terrifying. It's a million times worse when it's happening to someone else."

"Exactly," she agreed. "That's how I felt."

"I mean, _six_ _hours _we sat in that kitchen waiting for news. I don't know how Fred and George could stand it. If I'd been of age and knew how to Apparate you couldn't have stopped _me_ from going up that hospital, I promise you."

"Except that by doing so you could have put Harry in danger," she pointed out gently.

"Yeah, well… I'm not sure that would have stopped me either. When it's your _dad_…" He tailed off, remembering.

"I wish I'd been there."

"You don't," he said vehemently. "It was the worst night of my life."

_That's why I should have been there_, she thought.

"Wow, this is depressing," said Ron wryly. "Let's talk about something else, for God's sake."

"Okay. What shall we talk about?"

There was a short silence, then they burst out laughing.

"So now you're of age," grinned Ron, "You'll be able to use magic when you go home for Christmas and freak your parents out."

She laughed. "So I will! I hadn't thought about that! I can levitate the Christmas decorations!"

They both laughed.

"I can't _wait _'til I'm of age," enthused Ron, "It's going to be _brilliant_. I'll go around and Apparate in Fred's bathroom, just to pay him back for all the times he did it to me."

Hermione allowed herself a brief fantasy where she Apparated in the bathroom at the Burrow to find Ron stepping out of the shower, dripping wet and clad only in a very small, very loosely-tied towel. To cover her embarrassment, she joked,

_"That's_ the first thing you're going to do when you get your Apparition licence? You could go anywhere in the country, and you'd Apparate in _Fred's bathroom?"_

He laughed. "Well, now that you put it like that, it does seem a bit of a waste. So where would _you_ go, then?"

Hermione thought fast, and hoped he wouldn't wonder why her cheeks were so red.

"Well, I don't suppose we'll actually get an opportunity until school's finished in June, so I'd probably Apparate home from King's Cross."

"Why don't you just Apparate home from Hogsmeade?"

"Oh. I don't know. I suppose I just like getting the train home with everyone else. It feels like the proper end of term, you know, saying goodbye to everyone at the station."

"Hey, that's a point; we'll be able to Apparate to each other's houses in the holidays! You can come to Devon for breakfast and I can come to Cambridge for afternoon tea!"

She laughed. "And we can pick Harry up from Surrey on the way!"

"Yeah, we could have a three-county pub crawl! Oh, except Charlie says you should never Apparate while drunk, 'cos you could end up in the middle of the Irish sea."

"We could get the Knight bus."

"We could. Then we could get _really _drunk and we wouldn't have to worry about getting home!"

"Or if we went out in Cambridge, you could stay at my parents' house."

"Oh, yeah, I forgot you've got a spare room. Me and Harry could toss a coin for who gets the sofa."

"Mm," said Hermione. "Yes, you could."

_Or Harry could have the spare room and you could sleep in my bed. With me._

"Oh, this is going to be _great_," he exclaimed, excitedly. "Why can't we Apparate _now? _Why do we have to wait 'til June?"

"Where would you go, if we _could_ Apparate now?"

He considered for a moment. "I'd probably nip home and get that pair of wellies."

She burst out laughing and pushed him in the shoulder. "Fine! Well, if you're going to do that, I'll come with you and use your loo."

They both laughed.

"Well, we're _practical_…"

"And what's wrong with that?"

"Exactly. I mean, we _could_ have decided to go somewhere really exotic…"

"In _England?"_

"Alright, perhaps exotic's not the right word. Somewhere a bit more _interesting_ for our first Apparition than to your mum's house to use the loo."

"At least we could get a cup of tea."

"_More_ tea? You must have drunk about five cups today already!"

"Yeah, but four of those were in _really, really tiny_ _cups_..."

"Oh, well, that makes all the difference!"

They both laughed. Ron shot her a quick sideways glance. He liked watching her laughing. It was at times like this that he allowed himself to believe that maybe there was a chance after all, maybe she actually did like him just a little bit. Maybe she wouldn't freak out and run away if he just leant in and -

"Actually…" she smiled, "If I could Apparate anywhere in the world right now, do you know where I'd _really _like to go?"

"Where?"

"Here."

_"Here?" _he repeated, blankly.

"Well, what could be better than a nice walk in the fresh air with my best friend?"

Ron flushed slightly. He certainly couldn't think of anywhere else he'd rather be than wherever Hermione was, and her words made him feel all warm inside and very much as though he would like to tell her so. But then there was that "friend" again… every time he thought that maybe he could actually do something she kept reminding him exactly why he shouldn't. He should stop daydreaming and take the bloody hint.

"Well, it's certainly better than Fred's bathroom," he joked, weakly.

"Oh, thank you!" she exclaimed, "That's damning with faint praise if ever I heard it! So spending the afternoon with me is only marginally more fun than watching Fred have a bath?"

Ron gave a mock-shudder. "Spending the afternoon with _Malfoy_ would be more fun than watching Fred have a bath. Can we change the subject please? I really don't want to think about either of those things, especially since I've just eaten."

She laughed out loud, and Ron felt a wave of warmth course through him.

"You've got a nice laugh," he said, before he could stop himself.

Hermione looked up, startled. "I have?"

Ron flushed. Oh, _hell_.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "It's, er, nice."

She didn't know what to say. "Oh. Well… thank you."

They walked on in silence for a few paces, Ron cursing himself for having spoken the thought aloud, and racking his brains for a change of subject.

Beside him, Hermione's heart and mind were racing. It felt like an opportunity, a moment where she could say something heartfelt and maybe he might reciprocate.

_The thing is, Ron -_

_The thing is -_

_The thing is, I -_

_The thing is; I'm in love with you. _

She cleared her throat loudly. "Er, I -"

"Harry seems a lot better, don't you think?"

Hermione did not answer straight away, and Ron took her silence for disagreement.

"You don't think so?"

"Ye-es… sort of. You can never really tell with Harry, though. He bottles a lot of stuff up."

"That's true. You'll think everything's fine, and then three months later he'll blow up at you over something you didn't even realise was a problem."

They exchanged small, understanding smiles.

"He seems a bit happier, though. Although if I have to hear him go on about Malfoy for much longer, I'll start to suspect there's something going on between them."

She laughed. "I can categorically assure that you that Harry is _not _having some sort of secret affair with Malfoy."

"Good," grinned Ron. "'Cos I can just about cope with Ginny and Dean snogging all over the place, but I really don't want to have to watch Harry mooning over _Malfoy_."

"Well, I don't think you need to worry about _that_. I think he's still rather bruised from the Cho Chang business anyway."

"Oh, yeah. I'd almost forgotten about that. God, that seems like _years_ ago, doesn't it?"

"It does."

"He's well out of it. I mean, she was quite pretty and everything, but _God,_ she was miserable. Who wants a girlfriend who just cries all the time?"

Hermione was reminded of his sister's similar lack of sympathy on the issue.

"Well, to be fair, her last boyfriend _had_ just been murdered..."

"Yeah, but still… Harry's got problems of his own, hasn't he? He needs someone with a bit of oomph to them."

_"Oomph?" _laughed Hermione.

"Oh, you know what I mean. Someone with a bit of get up and go."

She bit back a smile. "I do know what you mean. Have you got anyone in mind? Maybe you could do a bit of matchmaking?"

"_Christ_, no! Can you imagine anyone taking _my_ advice about girls? I don't _think_ so!"

"Hmm, good point…"

_"Oi!"_

They both laughed.

"So you're okay about Ginny and Dean now, then?"

He gave an exaggerated sigh. "Yeah, I suppose so. She could do worse. Anyway, what difference would it make if I _did_ have a problem with it? Like she's going to take _my_ advice about anything!"

"Would you take hers if the situation were reversed?"

"No," he admitted, "But in case you haven't noticed, there isn't a long queue of girls waiting to go out with me."

"You don't need a long queue, you just need _one_."

He pretended to glance around the hillside for imaginary girls. "Nope, can't see any."

_You're not looking hard enough_, she thought to herself, but aloud she joked, "Maybe they're hiding behind that rock?"

Ron affected outrage. "So you're saying that only a _troll_ would be interested in me, is that what you're saying?"

She laughed out loud and shoved him in the arm. "Well, I'm sure there are some very pretty trolls out there…"

"Yeah, to _other trolls_, maybe. Although ask me again in a couple of years, maybe the trolls will have started to look quite attractive by then."

They walked on for a few yards, and then she asked, carefully, "So, do you _want _a girlfriend, then?"

Ron was silent for a moment, then he just shrugged. "Maybe. I dunno. Quidditch keeps me pretty busy, so… Anyway, who would have me? Ha ha ha!"

Hermione bit her lip and said nothing.

Ron noted wryly that she didn't seem able to come up with any suggestions. "So, um, what about you?"

"What about me?"

He tried to sound hearty. "Got your eye on anyone in particular?"

She smiled sadly to herself. She knew that if she said yes without elaborating any further he would jump to the automatic conclusion she meant Krum or McLaggen.

"Not really."

And sure enough...

"Heard from Krum lately?"

She almost laughed at the predictability of it all. "No."

He nodded. He was pretty sure she was holding something back, but he wasn't sure he wanted to pursue it. Keep the hope alive for just a little bit longer. Sooner or later that hope would be dashed for good, but for now he would really rather not know which unsuitable idiot she had her eye on. Especially out here, where there was nothing to _kick_.

Ahead of them the castle loomed into view and Hermione's heart sank. Five more minutes and her time alone with him would be over. Already there was less chance of him making any sort of move because someone might be looking out of a window and see them. Unconsciously, she slowed her pace and Ron automatically slowed his own pace to match hers.

Her fingers closed around the smooth cold pebble in her pocket and it seemed to give her renewed strength.

If she was going to say something, it had to be _now_.

_You do know, don't you, that Viktor and I… I never really liked him in that way, Ron. He kissed me once, after the ball, but… it didn't feel like a proper kiss… I didn't feel anything… There is someone else I do like in that way, actually… someone you know very well indeed, someone very close to me. And no, I don't mean Harry. Have you… have you ever kissed anyone, Ron? Have you ever wondered what it's like? Maybe we should... just to see… _

Neither of them spoke for several minutes, both lost in their thoughts and rising anxiety that their time alone together was nearly over. Before they knew it, they were walking up the path to the front door of the castle.

They lingered in the doorway, neither of them wanting to go in just yet.

"So…"

"So…"

"I suppose we should go inside, then."

"I suppose we should."

Neither of them moved.

"It'll be dark soon," said Ron, apropos nothing.

"Yes," said Hermione.

"Is it tonight the clocks go back?"

"Yes, I think it is."

"So Winter starts tomorrow."

"Yes."

They were both very much aware that if this were a date, this was the point where a kiss would be expected. But it wasn't a date, no matter how much today had sometimes felt like one, and the cold reality where they were still "just friends" lay on just the other side of that door.

Ron cleared his throat in a pointed fashion. "Listen, um…"

He took such a long time to finish the sentence that Hermione allowed herself to get her hopes up, only to have them - inevitably - dashed again.

"… thanks for today. It's been nice."

She smiled at him. "It has, hasn't it?"

"We should do it again sometime."

Her heart starting beating a little faster. "We should."

"Only if you want to, of course," he added, hastily.

"I do. I do want to."

"Good. Me too."

They smiled shyly at each other, then looked quickly away, down at their shoes.

"Yeah, next time I've got a big essay to write, I'll let you know, and we can go for a walk instead."

Hermione laughed. "Maybe not _every_ time!"

"Shame," grinned Ron. "Well… thanks for distracting me, anyway. You did a good job."

She flushed slightly. "My pleasure," she mumbled.

"So, er…"

"So…?"

"I suppose we should go in, then," he said again, but still did not move.

This time she did not reply, but left him to fill the silence any way he chose. Preferably not _verbally_...

"I mean, you've probably got that essay you want be to be getting on with..."

Still Hermione did not speak.

"Not to mention _my_ essay, of course, ha ha…"

She waited patiently for him to run out of small talk.

"You probably want to wash your hair as well, don't you? Get some of those knots out."

"... thanks for the tea, and... everything..."

"... that wind's getting up again..."

"... It's supposed to rain tomorrow..."

"... I probably need to burn these shoes..."

She could hear the desperation in his voice now, and knew he must be wondering if he'd said something to upset her. It was no good; she couldn't go on letting him think he'd done something wrong.

"Thanks for the pebble," she told him, gratefully. "It was a lovely thought."

"No problem," said Ron, with equal gratitude.

They beamed at each other.

"So..."

"So..."

Ron glanced down at his shoes for a moment as though steeling himself for something, and then lifted his gaze to hers again.

"Once more around the greenhouses?"

She smiled. "Why not?"

* * *

_**Endnote: **_

_From Pinky Brown, 4th October 2011 (a year after publishing this chapter):_

_It's been a whole year now, and I think I have to admit that I'm not going to finish this story. I just can't get up the inspiration or inclination to continue, especially considering that a) there's another 20 chapters and 2 years of writing to go if I stick to my original chapter plan and take it up to when they move in together, b) that's 20 solid chapters of unrelenting angst and misery, and c) I've already covered Year 6 in great depth in SFOGI and the thought of going over the same ground yet again makes me want to poke my eyes out with sticks. That combined with all the other distractions I've had this year, most notably my dad dying in June and everything that has followed, means that I've barely thought about this story at all in months. I can only apologise to any readers who have been waiting on tenterhooks for the next chapter and recommend you read Six Foot of Ginger Idiot if you haven't already, as it will explain what happens through the rest of sixth year. I really am truly sorry, and believe me, I've put off making this decision for a long time, hoping inspiration would strike. But it hasn't, and the only positive thing I can offer is that at least the story finishes on a hopeful note. Once more around the greenhouses, for ever..._

_Pb x_


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